


Beneath an Eastern Moon

by Kaelie



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 47
Words: 78,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaelie/pseuds/Kaelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally posted on Kaelie's Ghetto Page beginning on October 18, 2003, and ending November 19, 2003, exactly one year after I began writing it.  Invaluable beta work by Jess and by Beth.</p></blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue  
  
 _there’s a bad moon on the rise . . ._  
J.C. Fogerty  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It was a late morning in spring, and the sea of green grass between the dark forest and the bright sand of the shoreline hadn’t yet lost its winter luster.  The blue sky was beginning to bleach at the edges as the mid-morning sun steamed up the day.  Soon it would be hot enough for the younger children to sneak out one of the minor gates to the nearby sandy beach and splash in the cool ocean shallows, but for now it was business as usual.  The tall main gates to the walled City stood wide open, welcoming the warm breeze that blew gently from the forest to the west, the travelers, the traders, and treachery.  
  
Moments ago there had been the usual bustle of commerce at the main gate, but now travelers and civilians alike stood frozen as though in a schoolgirl’s game of stop-go-stop.  Inside the tall gates and the high stone walls, scores of armed men stood before the caravan of covered carts and wagons they had so easily entered the City in.  
  
 _What are they doing here what are they doing here how did they get in . . ._   A thousand protests tangled in Justin’s throat, and despite the thick heat his skin goose bumped under his linen shirt.  His excitement at carrying his father’s ceremonial messages to the guard towers without a guard escort for the first time withered suddenly beneath a sudden wash of terror.  They were strangers, strange looking, strangely dressed.  And they had swords.    
  
The City had banned all edged weapons inside the walls over a generation ago.  Except for the Yards and the royal guard, Justin had never seen long swords, and he’d never seen them brandished openly in the street.  He watched the armed men the way he’d once seen a rabbit watch a snake, fascinated, repelled, terrified.  For an agonizing split second nobody moved, time seeming to stretch like a taut rubber band.  There was no sound except for the distant screech of the seagulls and the pounding of Justin’s own heart.  Why didn’t someone do something?  
  
Paralyzed by his shock, Justin stood rooted in the dust of the main avenue and watched the scene play out.  He saw the gate chief, one of his uncles, move slowly toward the armed men, hands out in a gesture of non-aggression.  He looked small and alone, framed against the huge, open gates and the group of armed men, who spread out and advanced toward him, slowly.  The ceremonial tower guard nearest to Justin whispered a small, breathless prayer and he spared him a quick hopeful glance, but except for his dagger the guard was unarmed too.  Nobody had weapons except for the strangely dressed men.  
  
There was no signal that Justin could see, but there was a sudden surge of sound and movement and flashing iron that engulfed and overran the gate chief, heading towards the wide avenue through the lower steppe and into the City proper.  When the wave passed the gate chief lay alone in the street, utterly still and bleeding from a dozen deep slashes.  Justin stared unblinking at his uncle’s body as the blood seeped and spurted gently.  His own pulse was thudding sickly in his ears, deadening the howls of the strangers as they pounded up the wide avenue of the lower steppe.  Civilians screamed and scattered, tripping over each other before the pounding boots, their shouts ricocheting against the stone walls and falling back into the din, but the sounds seemed dim and far away, buried beneath his own harsh breaths, the deep pounding of his heart.  
  
There was movement and noise everywhere.  Huddled in the shadow of the guard tower where it met the City wall, Justin stared in silent and motionless shock.  On the other side of the main gate he saw a young man make a running leap and grab desperately for the edge of the nearest shop roof. His legs swung and he strained, his sandals scrabbling for a foothold on the slippery thatch. He managed to pull his legs over the ledge and began to crawl up the roof’’s slope. A million miles ahead of him lay the tall bulk of the City’’s wall and perhaps safety, but a steel arrow caught him through the back of the neck, throwing him flat on his face. His body shuddered, fingers clenching at the rough thatch surface.  
  
 _Get up_ , Justin whispered silently.  _Get to the wall.  Go.  Run._ But the man’s fingers scrabbled at the slippery tiles once more, shuddered, then relaxed.  He didn’t move again.  
  
There seemed to be so many of the armed men, pouring through the gate and swarming up the avenue toward the hill and the palace, toward Justin’s home.  His own breath tangled painfully in his throat, choking him, and his terrified shriek came out as a silent gasp.  Dust kicked from running feet rose in a blinding swirl, blurring the sight of the bodies in the street.  
  
More armed strangers poured through the open gate, pounding up the avenue and chasing anything that moved.  Justin did not move at all.  Frozen in the corner where the guard tower met the City’s wall, he still clutched the messenger bag containing the orders his father had trusted him to deliver to the guard tower.  The sound of his own beating heart and jagged breaths deafened him, dulling the sounds of metal sinking into soft flesh.  
  
The main body of the intruders proceeded rapidly up the street leaving motionless bodies and screaming wounded in their wake, and Justin shook himself from his frozen stupor.  They were headed for the palace.  It was mid-morning, the time when the yards would be empty of the guard, when the few weapons allowed for practice would be locked up.  The palace was even more defenseless than the City itself.  He had to find a way to warn them.  His eyes darted wildly.  The bell at the top of the tower . . .  
  
He gulped hard at the thought of leaving the slim safety of the tower shadow.  He could hear noises from outside the gate, see shadows thrown that indicated even more strangers outside, massing for a serious attack.  Under his shock and terror his mind began to function sluggishly, tactical lessons learned from the royal tutor suddenly real and immediate for the first time.  The initial attack was just to create confusion and terror, and probably to get inside and throw open the other gates.  They must know the City had become lax, wasn’t expecting an attack, hadn’t had an attack in more than three generations.  The real threat was coming in the gates now.    
  
Justin saw smoke rising from the far ends of the lower steppe, heard the screams of civilians as the strangers advanced toward the castle.  He thought of his family, his mother, and edged around the corner into the sunlight and drifting smoke.  He didn’t look at the bodies in the street, fixing his eyes on the watchtower, and the bell.  Narrowing his eyes to slits, he took a deep breath and ducked his head as he sprinted across the street.  
  
He was fast.  In the races with the other boys his own age he almost always won but this time he felt like he was moving in slow motion.  The row of shops up the lower steppe was burning and the thick gray smoke drifted across his vision, sliding down his throat and making him gasp for air.  The tower’s big wooden door was slightly ajar and partially obscured in the drifting smoke and it was close, so close, close enough to touch with his outstretched hand.  His brain was already exulting in his safety when he felt the noose encircle his head, settling almost gently around his neck before jerking tight.  Lights exploded in front of his eyes as he was yanked backwards, right off his feet and onto his back.  
  
His fingers went automatically to the rough rope twined brutally around his neck, the lack of oxygen a far greater concern than the fact that he was being dragged away from the tower and down the dusty street while the strangers sliced their swords at him and shouted.  A horse’s hooves pounded perilously close to his head and his fingers clawed at his throat and the last thing he saw as his vision grayed and tunneled down to a pinprick was his City’s gray walls and the clear blue sky beyond it.  _So this is how it ends_ , he thought dimly, and he had a moment of savage regret as the sky receded and darkness descended.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Kevin’s eyebrows raised in polite inquiry.  “What is . . . this?”  
  
“It’s that kid, from the guard tower.  He’s wearing a messenger uniform, we thought you’d want to talk to him.”  
  
“Isn’t he dead?”  
  
“We thought he was dead, but he’s not.  The uniform -- it’s the royal colors.”  
  
“Well, then.  Is there water?  Throw some on him.”  
  
Kevin barely spared a glance at the limp young man on the floor in front of him before turning back to the crude maps spread out on the table.  His ears were sharply tuned to the sounds of battle coming from the direction of the palace; he could smell the smoke from the roof thatch burning in the lower steppe.  He shouted “and get Brian in here,” over the sounds of splashing water and the choking and gagging of the boy at his feet, and his voice was immensely cheerful.  So far, it had been a very good morning.  
  
He looked down, his narrowed eyes taking in the well made but filthy royal guard uniform, the ceremonial messenger bag now in tatters, the bruised neck and bloody face of a boy no more than fifteen.  Tall for his age, Kevin noted absently, but young.  Beneath the dirt from the street his face was still soft, unformed.  He was wheezing, his hands held protectively around his long slender neck and when Kevin toed him ungently in the ribs he opened huge, bloodshot blue eyes, dazed and terror stricken.  Kevin smiled.  
  
“Yes, you’re alive.”  He regarded him thoughtfully.  “Can you stand up?”  The courteous tone was an odd contrast to the distant screaming and the smell of fire, the sounds of battle, and Kevin smiled kindly as the boy blinked in confusion.  “Come on now, be a soldier,” he suggested casually, and didn’t laugh when he scrambled awkwardly to his feet.  He was too young and too well dressed to be a soldier, but ceremonial guards and messengers always liked to think they were more dangerous and important than they were.  
  
If it had been another City, Kevin would have been more interested in the contents of the boy’s messenger bag.  Such orders and messages could give crucial information, but the Timberlakes had so obviously been taken by surprise, and he expected the orders in the messenger bag would be nothing more than routine.  Kevin  grabbed for the bag anyway, easily fending off the messenger’s clumsy attempt to stop him with a casual elbow to the solar plexus.  The boy collapsed back to the ground, gasping harshly as Kevin unfolded the orders and skimmed them, his mouth curling in contempt.  Routine, unnecessary orders to the chief gatekeeper, the Timberlake’s elegant royal crest, nothing of use.  His eyes scanned the royal seal and turned back to the boy, and was surprised when he suddenly lunged at him, an uncoordinated flurry of untutored fists and kicks.  He subdued him easily and this time he did laugh at the boy’s expression.  
  
“Well, that answers that.  You are certainly no soldier,” he jeered softly, and laughed again as the boy struggled fiercely.  
  
Oh, this could be fun, but the battle called and this time there was no time for smiles and pretending of courtesies.  He grabbed the boy hard by the front of his guard uniform and threw him roughly against a crude table, which had been pulled from the back office of what had once been some sort of shop.  The maps curled and rustled, and one fell to the floor.  
  
“So, you know the palace, messenger boy,” Kevin stated, enjoying the way his blue eyes fogged with panic.  “I know you do.”  
  
The boy’s childish mouth curved in an odd combination of terror and determination, and he shook his head frantically, no, no.  Kevin sighed, tilted his head as he regarded him, dirty blond curls, huge blue eyes.   He should call for AJ, perhaps, but there really wasn’t time for more elegant forms of persuasion.  
  
He abruptly twisted his hands, tightening the material beneath the boy’s already bruised and swollen throat, threatening to cut off his air supply and the boy’s hands scrabbled frantically.  One latched around Kevin’s left hand and clutched and scratched, drawing blood, and from his position it was easy to knee him brutally between the legs, smiling as the body stiffened and went slack.  He loosened his grip, letting the boy drag in an anguished breath as his body curled in agony.  
  
“Now,” he said pleasantly, “perhaps we can discuss this like the civilized men we are.  You are wearing a royal uniform, you carry a royal messenger bag, and in it you have a message bearing the royal seal.”  He leaned his thigh hard against the boy’s groin, enjoying the choked whimper.  “So, I think we can strike a deal, here.  I need to know where the underground passage to the Timberlake palace is.”  He leaned in, feeling the body beneath him tremble in agony, and twisted the material tightly around the messenger’s throat.  “And you, my pretty boy, need air.”  
  
He waited, aware that his brother had entered the dim room and was standing silently behind him.  He stared into the boy’s blue eyes, reading pain, terror, physical agony, but underneath that was a stubborn sort of defiance, even outrage, and when the boy grit his teeth and shook his head again, no, Kevin’s patience snapped.  
  
He heard Brian draw his sword as he grabbed the boy by the front of his uniform and pulled him upright, then spun him around and threw him face down on the table.  He didn’t even have to look at his brother, Brian knew exactly what to do when it came to getting information.  AJ was more talented, but he took too long, Kevin thought, absently watching as Brian took a handful of curly hair and yanked the messenger hard across the table, his long sword resting right below the throat so he had to strain against gravity and Brian’s hand to keep it from slicing him open.  Kevin twisted the boy’s left arm hard behind his back, forcing his upper body to twist grotesquely and his feet to scrabble for purchase against the slippery stone floor.  He leaned hard against the boy’s ass, feeling the muscles shake as they strained away from Brian’s sword.  
  
“The underground passage,” he snarled.  “Now.”  
  
“You should tell him,” Brian advised the boy gently.  “Once my brother loses his temper there’s really no going back.”  
  
He was wheezing now, making that interesting whooping noise that every victim of slow strangulation made.  His neck muscles popped and his entire body trembled, straining away from the sharp sword and back against Kevin’s body.  Kevin nudged forward, his groin pressing intimately against the boy’s round, firm ass.  He felt him freeze, and then struggle harder, panicky, felt rather than saw Brian’s grin.  Kevin pulled his dagger from his left boot, gave the boy’s arm another hard twist and heard him choke back a scream as he started to slice his trousers from his body.  Unlike AJ’s elaborate and subtle tortures, this wouldn’t take long at all.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty minutes later Kevin led his own royal guard up the lower steppe to the overgrown path beyond the smoldering royal guard Yards, around the edge of the cliff beneath the castle.  The sounds of the battle at the front palace gates were dim and muffled, but his own path was deserted and he smiled, feeling his spirits rise.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	2. One

One  
 _  
moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black_  
Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood (1954)  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Joey couldn’t remember a time in his life when the Yard had not figured prominently.  He had spent every spare moment of his childhood there, beginning in the low-walled miniature Yards adjacent to the adult ones, sponging up the basic katas and forms and weapons instruction like they were the freshest and sweetest of waters.    
  
Everyone who came to the Yard and asked to be taught was allowed instruction, but for Joey there was something special about being there, a feeling of pride and worth that seemed to him, even as a child, to be a rare gift.  He certainly didn’t see such emotions in his father’s face, trudging in from the grape fields every evening, or in his mother’s when she returned from her early mornings at the bakery.  They both seemed too grateful to return to their small house in the lower steppe, and so reluctant to leave for their tasks each morning, but for Joey leaving the Yard was excruciating.  Even when his mind reeled from the amount of information given and his body quivered in exhaustion, even when he sometimes doubted that his shaking limbs would carry him back to his family’s home on the lower steppe, already Joey’s mind had been on the next day’s lessons.  He had daydreamed through his regular school classes, marking time until he could hurry to the Yard, arriving early for his classes and staying late, practicing and asking questions until he was gently shooed out to make room for the next classes.  As early as age eight, he knew this would be his life.  
  
The Yardmaster was a gigantic, remote presence in the Yard.  After accepting Joey’s formal Request to be taught, the Yardmaster had not spoken directly to Joey until one dark morning two hours before sunrise, when Joey and his friend Jason had come to the Yard to practice a particularly complicated (to their young minds) kata.  Already, after only a few months as formally accepted pupils, they were unable to contemplate serious practice in any other place.  
  
The Yardmaster had had a way of moving that was absolutely silent, unobtrusive, and Joey had not known he was in the Yard and behind him until he saw Jason’s eyes move past Joey’s sword arm and widen, suddenly.  He’d had no time to react before hearing the Yardmaster’s voice, suddenly, quietly and with his lips right against Joey’s ear.  “I could kill you right now,” he had said, his voice deep and silky soft with menace, and Joey had frozen in terror.  
  
They had not been given permission to be in the Yard before daybreak.  It had been so quiet and dark, they’d been certain that they had been unobserved.  Joey’s mouth had seemed to fill with dry cotton, his tongue sticking to the roof, unable to make any excuse or beg pardon as the Yardmaster had stood to his full height, silent, threatening, his eyes sharp and his face unsmiling as he looked down at them.    
  
The dim glow of the night lamps made their frozen shadows flutter in a parody of fluent movement as they faced the Yardmaster.  Joey had waited for the reprimand, flushed with shame and sick with terror that he might be banned from the Yard.  His mouth had worked silently, and the panicked thought that he could not bear to be banned, not when it already was so important to him, made his empty stomach roll sickly.  
  
Then the Yardmaster had smiled.  “I have never seen boys your age come so early to the Yard,” he remarked almost casually.  “Can you tell me why you are here?”  
  
Jason had gulped audibly, leaving Joey to try to formulate an intelligent answer.  He took a deep breath and tried his best, his childish voice stammering as he explained about wanting to practice the kata they’d learned from the Undermaster the previous afternoon, had indicated the clean white half walls of the child’s Yard with his little wooden sword and said, haltingly, that they wanted to do it right.  They’d meant no disrespect, and he hadn’t explained it well, hadn’t even known how, but with a relief that made him dizzy he saw that the Yardmaster was nodding, seemed to understand.  
  
“Well then.  I give the two of you permission to come to the Yard, to use it for one hour before sunrise.  Use the time well.”  His eyes had warmed, his face had softened a little as Joey had gasped a sigh of relief.  “And in the future,” he continued quietly to Joey alone, “always keep one eye behind you, even as you use both eyes on your opponent.”  His smile had been sudden, an odd combination of menace and encouragement.  “The katas are important, but skills like these will save your life.”  
  
He had left them with a swirl of his cloak, seeming to become part of the deep shadows immediately, leaving them both shaking but exhilarated, energized.  Joey had never missed his early morning practice session, and most mornings the Yardmaster was there, silently observing and sometimes instructing him.  Within four years he had graduated to the adult Yard, and three years after that had become the youngest Undermaster in the City.  He’d been appointed to the Queen’s royal Guard shortly thereafter.  
  
From the Yardmaster Joey learned the more subtle skills, like how to read an opponent so you knew what he would do before he had decided to do it, ways to defend yourself if you lost your weapon, how to distinguish bravado from true courage, to recognize desperation and whether it would make a man more or less skilled.  He’d shown Joey meditation techniques for keeping his mind clear even through exhaustion and terror and pain, skills that had stood him in good stead through every one of his increasingly difficult advancement tests.  Observation, knowledge; the Yardmaster taught him that these skills were just as crucial as deadliness and accuracy with a weapon and quickness of limbs.  
   
Joey had taken such lessons to heart and to this day knew he had reason to be proud of those skills.  They were not flashy skills, did not garner the praise and adulation that showy sword play and fancy footwork earned, but just as the Yardmaster had promised all those years ago, they were the skills that had saved his life when the invasion had come to his home City.    
  
He had fought desperately to guard the upper steppe and the entrance to the palace with a number of Yard mates who had been killed early, unbalanced by the surprise, the speed and ferocity of the attack.  Joey had seen the smoke billowing from the palace windows, had taken in the battle and sensed the way the tide was inevitably turning, and knew that his single sword would not be enough to save the royal family even if he could survive, outnumbered as he was, to reach the entrance.  He’d weighed his options in a split second of icy clarity before ducking away, sprinting through the back alleyways and hedgerows, avoiding the sounds of battle until he made it to the back door of his own modest home in the lower steppe.  
  
His intention had been to grab Kelly and the baby and flee through one of the smaller gates, getting his family to safety in the foothills beyond the forest.  He could never abandon the City permanently, but despite a lifetime of loyalty to the Timberlake family and commitment to his profession, concern for his wife and child had taken precedence.  His brain had been working coldly and logically even as he’d run, gasping for breath and gritting his teeth against the pain of his wounds.  He would see Kelly and Briahna to safety, then return under cover of darkness, disguise himself as a traveler or a fisherman, find others like himself, organize, infiltrate, take action once things weren’t so chaotic.  
  
None of these plans included finding his little home ransacked and ominously silent.  The kitchen, where Kelly would have been at the time of the attack, looked like a hurricane had blown through.  Cupboard doors were open and swept clean, broken dishes lay in jagged piles on the floor.  Joey had looked around in stunned incomprehension, all his focus and desperate momentum gone.  The kitchen still smelled of the tomato sauce Kelly had been talking about making for dinner that morning.  Her sauce kettle, a wedding gift from her cousin’s family, lay upended on the floor.  The walls and floor were splattered with thick, running droplets of dark red and he’d stared at them, unblinking, his breath suspended until they’d swum before his eyes, seeming to grow and move, dripping slowly down the walls.  
  
In a daze, Joey had moved through the house, taking in the overturned furniture, the stuffing slashed and scattered about the floor like a gentle dusting of snow, the front door broken from its hinges and gaping open, letting in drifts of smoke as houses further down the steppe burned.  And everywhere were the splatters of the thick, viscous tomato sauce, even here in the sitting room, and more, here, in the bedroom where he could still discern the light floral scent Kelly used . . .    
  
There was no sign of Kelly, and other than one small pink knitted booty lying abandoned in a corner of the kitchen, there was no trace of his baby daughter.  Joey’s warrior mind supplied cold and ruthless probabilities, but the husband and father in him refused to acknowledge them.  Instead he stripped off his bloody Guard uniform, quickly cleaning and binding the superficial wounds on his left arm and his ribs, then gathered his Yard uniforms and practice and ceremonial weapons and stowed them in the darkest recesses of the small basement.  He pulled on regular working clothes that still smelled vaguely of fish from the week he’d spent helping Kelly’s uncle at the family’s catch cleaning stalls.  He stifled his rage and fury and concentrated on putting his little house in order, fixing and bolting the door, righting the furniture, sweeping up the broken crockery, cleaning up the splattered tomato sauce.  Kelly would have heard the attack and fled with the baby, he told himself.  She was hiding somewhere, and when it was safe, she would find her way back here, or he would find her.  In the meantime, he would make sure there was a home for her to come to.  
  
But his Yard-trained mind continued to function coldly as he scrubbed compulsively at the red stains on the walls and the floor, ignoring the screams of citizens caught in the street, the sounds of the invading troops as they burned and killed their way through the avenues.  They would be concentrating on the upper steppe and the palace, on the City’s ruling family and nobles, and they would be busy there for awhile.  Here in the working class lower steppe there were many hiding in their houses, afraid to show themselves, waiting for the violence to spend itself, and he would be one of those.  His studies of war told him that after the invasion and the conquering came occupation.  The Timberlake City was a prime location, rich with goods from both the sea and the land, with an industrious and sober populace.  Joey didn’t know who had invaded, but the reasons were clear.  There were many big Families with less prosperous Cities, and they would want to put this City back on a profitable path as quickly as possible.  Joey looked around his home, smelled the burning thatch from the lower steppe and heard the distant screams, and once again tamped down viciously on his rage, his fear, his overwhelming need to take action immediately.  That way was suicide.  He would hide here, in plain sight, and he would wait for his chance to correct the things that had gone so horribly wrong this day.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Two

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Two  
  
 _The sun to me is dark  
And silent as the moon_  
John Milton, “Paradise Regained”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
In the days JC had been locked in the dark, he had already paced the long length of the cell more times than he could remember.  If he strode fast, his legs stretched to their fullest length, it was little more than eight strides.  If he walked normally, casually, it was closer to fourteen.  If he placed one foot directly in front of the other, heel to toe, it was an even and exact thirty-two.  The width of the cell was less than half of the measurement of the length, and the barred door was at the far end, against the wall.  The flickering torch in the hallway was lit occasionally by an ever-changing series of drudges, but even when it was lit it still left all but the smallest slice of the long cell in darkness.  
  
At night, though, a narrow sliver of moonlight drifted through the small barred ventilation window high up against the ceiling, bathing the ugly black cell in a faint blue glow.  He could see enough then to know that it was light reflected against the high wall directly outside the window, but it was the only illumination he had.  The sunlight glancing off that same wall during the day was a sluggish and sickly yellow, reminding him of the dim torchlight from the dank corridor, and it only made JC feel more closed in and trapped.  The blue light of the moon allowed him to breathe.  
  
He didn’t know exactly where in the royal dungeons he was.  The only time he’d ever seen them, on an errand from the weapons master in the royal Yard as a boy, the cells had been open, clean but empty and with that musty smell that came from places long unused.  The Timberlakes had rarely, if ever, had a reason to employ them.   He recalled that they’d been square, though, with bars instead of walls, smaller but more open.  He’d never seen a cell resembling the one he was in now.  
  
It had been two days since the battle, he guessed, his head wound making the day of the battle and his subsequent imprisonment even more cloudy and confused.  The last thing he remembered clearly was the guard changing in the late morning of a spring day, the peacefulness of the Royal Yard as it had emptied out.  He’d been looking forward to the two hours of quiet before his Yard lessons began in the afternoon, had been debating whether to scrounge lunch in the kitchens or perhaps to stretch out in the sun behind the weapons room and take a nap.  It had been his favorite kind of day, warm, clear, no sounds in the upper steppe other than the chirping of birds searching for nesting areas in the thatch roof eaves.  
  
He barely remembered the battle itself, the hours he had fought a spiraling kaleidoscope of sweat and blood and terror and desperation.  He’d been napping so deeply that the gradually growing shouts and screams had worked their way into a dream of battle, and he’d roused suddenly to find it upon him.  He’d reflexively grabbed his short sword, hastily unwrapping the protective padding with shaking fingers as he’d bolted for the upper steppe’s main avenue, joining his friends and Yard mates as they fought desperately against the invaders moving inexorably toward the palace.  The first shock of his sword meeting another, and part of his mind had still blinked in disbelief that this was really happening, that this was not part of his dream.   
  
He remembered enough to know that the attackers had worn odd clothing, too heavy for the warm tropical climate of his City, that there had been heavily bearded faces and long hair in a custom not practical on the steaming coast.  And they’d been hardened, seasoned soldiers with long swords, and despite his own skill, his short practice sword had really been no match.  He sighed, rubbing the still-substantial lump on the back of his head, and hoped he had taken out at least a few of the attackers.  
  
He didn’t remember the head blow that had knocked him unconscious, and thought he’d probably been left for dead by the attackers, and thrown in here when it had been seen that he was not.  When he woke it had been to inky darkness, and he’d seen the moon only once since that time, so he surmised that it hadn’t been more than a couple of days since the City had come under attack.  
  
He paced the length of the cell steadily, gritting his teeth as he forced his stiff muscles to lengthen and stretch, trying to make his head clear.  He had a sickening, pounding headache, but his vision seemed fine, and other than the large lump on his head, tender to the touch, and a few superficial cuts and bruises, he seemed to be unharmed.  He was still dressed in his plain Yard practice clothes, the cotton sliced on the shoulder and the right arm splattered with droplets of blood which were not his.  His mind traveled uneasily over the details he remembered and the blank places he did not remember, and a large part of him couldn’t believe that his old Yardmaster wouldn’t show up and demand some sort of explanation.  JC had fine Yard skills, but the Master had always pushed him for more, for the teaching skills, the memory skills, things that would make him a more well rounded Undermaster.  He would not be pleased with JC’s faulty knowledge of recent events.  A small voice in the back of his mind muttered that he wouldn’t have to worry about pleasing the Yardmaster anytime soon, but he ignored it and continued to pace.  
  
The early morning light brought an unfamiliar drudge with an armed guard, opening the steel door at the far end of the cell and depositing dusty and moth-eaten blankets, a pot full of some sort of stew, a small bucket of water and another empty pail, presumably for slop.  JC stayed at the far end of the dark cell, noting the easy way the bearded guard held his long sword, its buffed metal denoting heavy use and painstaking care.  Neither man seemed to know or care that JC was there, or whether he was dead or alive.   
  
Later he had cursed himself for not being more alert, wondering if he could’ve overpowered the guard, taken his sword, somehow escaped.  Things seemed to be fairly chaotic still.  JC could hear boots echoing up and down distant corridors, shouts and sometimes screams, and he guessed he wasn’t all that far from the main dungeons, but the stone hallway outside his doorway had remained silent and empty.  
  
It had been a long and tedious day, and the yellowish light had faded when there was a sudden clamor outside of his cell.  A key scraped in the lock, the door was thrown open, and an armed guard stepped inside, his sword out and ready.  JC froze where he was against the far wall, deep in the shadows, only his eyes moving as he watched the guard’s sword arm and stance.  He noted the colors of the soldier’s uniform, automatically calculated his size, his weight, and measured them against his own skill.  If he had a weapon, JC thought with an unaccustomed iciness, he could easily kill this man.  The guard’s sword wavered in the flickering light of the corridor torch, betraying the slightest trembling in his hands.  He was nervous, his eyes unaccustomed to the pitch black of the long cell, and when he barked harshly at someone in the hallway, his voice was shaking.  JC watched him narrowly, and his hand itched desperately for a sword.  Already he could see the guard’s body, twitching and bleeding on the stone floor of the cell.  
  
Two drudges entered behind the guard, shuffling awkwardly, one carrying a flickering torch and the other a body, which he flung ungently to the stone ground.  It hit limply, with a faint groan.  The drudge carrying the torch set down another blanket and two small pails and gathered up the pails left that morning before he edged out of the cell, one eye warily on the guard.   JC didn’t move until the door had locked safely behind them and their torchlight and footsteps had faded away.  He approached the body cautiously, his right hand unconsciously curled around the hilt of a short sword that was not there.  
  
The body lay in doorway, illuminated by the dim flickering light of a torch far down the corridor, and when JC rolled it over he saw that it was a young man, no, a boy actually, beaten and bloody and barely conscious.  He hissed in sympathy at the lurid bruises around his throat, the raw scrapes on the right side of his face, the deep, almost fatal cuts at the base of the boy’s throat.  His mouth was bloody and both eyes were black with bruises.  His body curled into itself, feebly, like something deep inside was broken.  
  
One of the pails contained what looked like clean water, and JC used the cloth folded clumsily over the side to gently pat at the abrasions on the boy’s face.  He was warm with a fever, and the blue eyes, when they opened, were fuzzy and dim.  
  
“Hey,” JC said softly when the eyes focused on him.  “Hey, can you hear me?  Can you tell me where it hurts?”  
  
The boy’s mouth opened feebly, the lips cracking and JC used the cloth to dampen them, squeezing some of the cool water into his mouth.  The boy swallowed convulsively, throat working painfully underneath the cuts and bruises, and his bloodshot eyes closed again as he shivered.  
  
JC took the extra blanket to the far side of the dim cell and returned to the boy.  “C’mon,” he murmured encouragingly, “come on, help me out here.”  He stooped down and slid an arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him into an almost sitting position.  “C’mon, kid, let’s get you comfortable,” and the boy seemed to understand because he took a deep breath, leaning heavily on JC as he tried to get his feet under him, bent almost double with his arms curled protectively around his torso.  
  
It wasn’t until the boy was on his feet, swaying unsteadily as JC turned him toward the far end of the cell, that he saw the boy’s pants were cut right down the back seam and the left leg, and that the filthy cloth was caked with blood.  He stared in shock, then leaped forward as the boy swayed and started to go down, catching him and half-carrying him to the blankets in the corner.  His own head ached fiercely at the exertion, and the boy’s eyes were closed and his teeth chattered even as his body burned.  JC felt his stomach twist in sympathy.  God, he was just a kid.  
  
He folded the blanket carefully over his body and set to work cleaning the boy’s bloody and battered face.  He hoped he wouldn’t die.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

Three  
  
 _Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun . . ._  
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 35  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
This might be the nicest palace they’d taken yet, Kevin thought, casting an appreciative eye around the main hall.  Clean, lots of light, pale walls, and the furnishings that remained unbroken were tasteful.  The entry hall had long wide windows and when he paced over to them, stepping over the bloody bodies of two of the royal guard, they offered him a gorgeous view of both the City and the sea.  Very nice palace, he thought.  He took a moment to enjoy it, ignoring the chaos around him.  
  
The lower steppe still burned, he noticed absently.  There was smoke from the middle steppe near the central marketplace, but there didn’t appear to be too much damage.  The docks looked deserted but the fishing fleet seemed intact, and that was important.  Get in, take over, and restore order and commerce immediately.  That was the plan.  That was always the plan.  
  
“Nice place,” AJ said behind him, but when Kevin turned to look at him he was carefully wiping off his sword, his eye intent on the flash of silver as he tested the sharpness of his blade.  Kevin lifted a sardonic brow.  
  
“Have you even taken a look around?” he queried, and AJ flashed a smile at him, deadly and sharp as the blade in his hand.  
  
“I saw the important things when we came in through the tunnels,” he drawled, and Kevin couldn’t help but laugh.  A whole new City, beautiful and prosperous as their own had never been, and all AJ cared about were the dungeons and the dark underground chambers they’d passed as they’d moved in through the tunnel.  So typical.  
  
“We really have to broaden your horizons,” he said affectionately.  
  
“What?  No.  Why?”  AJ asked without really expecting an answer.  He sheathed his sword and cocked an eyebrow at Kevin before heading back down the long hallway, whistling tunelessly.  
  
“Is he going back to the dungeons?” Brian’s quiet voice asked from behind him, and Kevin turned to him with a smile.  
  
“It is, apparently, where he most wants to be.”  
  
“Well, they are the nicest underground passages I’ve ever seen,” Brian admitted.  “Did you notice, when we came through?  Clean, good ventilation.  And empty.  I don’t think the Timberlakes had much use for them.”  
  
Kevin shook his head.  “I didn’t really notice,” he said, and Brian grinned at him.  
  
“Tunnel visioned.  You’re as bad as AJ,” he scolded mildly, and Kevin grinned back at him.  
  
“Well, I did have some important things on my mind,” he reminded Brian.  “Like whether the information we got out of that boy was correct or not.  I didn’t really have the energy for sightseeing, and we were already behind schedule.”  
  
Brian’s eyes were on the smoke still rising from the lower and middle steppe.  “Have you looked upstairs?” he asked, and Kevin slapped him on the shoulder.  
  
“I was just waiting for you,” he said, and they moved to the wide staircase together.  
  
It really was a lovely building, Brian thought, old but clean and very modern, with high ceilings and wide archways that took advantage of the ocean breezes.  It was not as big as one would assume a palace for a City this large and prosperous would be, but it seemed more than adequate.  As they trooped up the wide, gently sloping staircase Brian contrasted the clean, pale walls, the skylights and the large, gorgeous windows with their own dark and abandoned home and shook his head.  They’d come a very long way.  
  
He and his brothers had left their home years ago, when they’d been barely more than boys themselves.  It had been a small City, far inland and on the banks of a dark, powerful river that had slowly, inexorably pulled the ground out from under them.  Brian remembered their grandfather’s palace, dark high ceilinged rooms and moldy walls, and the stone floors that had sloped unevenly despite almost yearly repairs, windows that showed the City walls under constant siege from the huge, black encroaching forest.  As a boy he could remember his father and uncles sending far away for experts to advise them on changing the course of the river, doing something to change its path and its determination to suck their City under, but there had been nothing to be done.  The rival City far up the river would not allow the construction and damming that would’ve saved their home.  Commerce failed and resources dwindled as the river port attached to their City became impassable.  Each season there was less to eat and more disease.  Each month more of the citizens left until only those who truly had nowhere to go remained.  When Brian and his brothers finally departed, most of their City and the surrounding area had become swampland.  Only the northern wall, leaning tragically toward the soggy ground, remained.  
  
There had been nothing left, they all knew that, but abandoning the City that had belonged to their family for generations had filled them all with despair.  Nick had cried openly, twisting around on his horse until the trees had finally hidden the last bit of listing wall from the path.  Howie had been tight lipped and completely silent, but when Brian had turned to check on them he’d seen him speaking quietly to Nick before offering him his flask.  AJ had snarled something ugly about pampering the boy, and there had been vicious words between he and Howie, but Nick had stopped crying.  
  
Kevin, riding tall and dark on his horse beside Brian had said nothing, nor had he looked back at the City they’d been born and raised in.  The next time he spoke it was to lay out a detailed and finely organized plan for the infiltration and ruin of the City to the north, the City whose refusal to help or at least not interfere had been their ruin.  It turned out to be only the beginning of Kevin’s plans.  The first had been for revenge.  Each City taken since then had been taken for profit.  Taken, squeezed, and then destroyed before they moved on.    
  
As the reached the balcony of the third story, Brian wondered if this place, so beautiful and prosperous and so different from their own dark and bleak beginnings, would be where they stayed and called home.  He looked at his brother’s dark, grim face, heard the last of the fighting at the front of the palace gate end in screams, and watched Kevin smile a little.  Taken for profit and for enjoyment, Brian corrected himself, and turned to follow Kevin up to what had likely been the royal family’s private quarters.  
  
Less formal up here, he thought, ignoring their soldiers as they dragged and piled the bodies of servants from the last of the resistance by the staircase.  Then he caught sight of the carving at the entrance to the private hall, and he stopped, tugging on Kevin’s arm.  
  
It was a lovely piece, a huge slab of what looked like oak or some other light wood, and the faces carved on it had been crafted by a master.  Brian recognized the man and the woman and two little boys as the royal family.  The carving showed them all smiling, faces tilted slightly up.  The likenesses were uncanny; the carving must have been done within the last year or so.  The family they’d found hiding with a few guards in the underground passage had been terrified but still regal.  They’d died bravely, even the children, but it was the fifth face that caught his attention.  He moved closer, squinting slightly, and beside him he heard Kevin swear.  
  
Older than the two boys they’d found in the underground passage, the third boy looked to be a teenager.  Almost as tall as his father, with his mother’s curly hair, square chin and huge, bright smile.  The boy in the messenger uniform at the North gate had not smiled even once, but Brian thought there was no mistaking him.  
  
“Hell,” he swore, turning to Kevin.  “That boy was no messenger.  He was the Timberlake heir.”  
  
The muscles in Kevin’s jaw jumped as he stared, narrow eyed, at the carving.  “I knew we should’ve killed him,” he muttered.  “He must be dead by now.  He has to be dead.”  He turned to Brian.  “Find Nick, go down to the lower steppe with him, and make sure that boy is dead.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Four

Four  
  
 _. . . gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon . . ._  
William Shakespeare, “King Henry IV”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The sounds of screams and chaos had almost completely faded away.  The late afternoon sun made the smoke still rising to the sky a vivid gray and silver, and Nick looked at the almost peaceful view with appreciation.  
  
It had been the best sort of day, he thought as he carefully cleaned his sword and sheathed it at his belt.  Kevin and Brian’s meticulous planning had again paid off, his soldiers had once again proven themselves superior, and now they had this whole pretty City to do with as they would.  He watched as one guard detail herded a group of citizens toward the entrance to the dungeons, and another detail took the last wagon load of bodies out of the upper steppe to the south gate for burial.  He had lost only a fraction of his own soldiers; the surprise had been that complete.  
  
He saw Brian approach from the main pathway to the castle and grinned sunnily at him, waving to get his attention.  His adrenaline was still soaring a little and part of him wondered if Brian could be coaxed into exploring their new possession and maybe hunting up a little mayhem with him now that the fight was over.  It could be a really fun evening if he could get his brothers to relax and investigate some of the spoils of war with him.  But Brian’s face was set; he jerked his head to acknowledge Nick’s wave but didn’t smile, and Nick sighed with disappointment.  Still more work to do, apparently.  
  
“Everything in order here?” Brian asked, and Nick nodded, gesturing with his free hand.  
  
“All of the Yard fighters are dead,” he said, indicating the wagon load of bodies just starting to roll away.  “And I sent the survivors to the dungeons.  I figured AJ would like them.  Almost no resistance once we got to the castle.  Lots of people just hiding in their houses, waiting for something to happen, I guess.”  
  
Brian almost smiled, his eyes on the smoke from the marketplace in the middle steppe.  “Enough hasn’t happened today?” he asked lightly, and they both laughed a little.  Brian’s eyes were still serious, though, and Nick swung around to follow him as he headed down the main pathway through the upper steppe.  
  
“So, what’s going on?” Nick asked quietly, because obviously something was.  
  
“Some clean up to do,” Brian answered shortly, and the tone of his voice was all it took to make Nick motion at the guards that had moved to follow them to stay where they were.  Something private, apparently, and he checked to make certain that his weapons were ready.  The population appeared completely cowed, the Yard masters and guardsmen were all dead, and he didn’t need any help guarding his brother.  
  
Brian cocked an eyebrow at him, amused at Nick’s protective stance, but only asked him how the battle at the front gate had gone.  Nick puffed up a little with pride, describing the battle and the ease with which his soldiers had defeated the castle guards and masters from the royal Yard.  Brian listened to the whole story before reminding Nick in a few short, sharp words that the tide of the battle had turned because the palace guards had been caught between Nick’s soldiers and Brian and Kevin’s force from inside.  Nick remembered the underground passage, and subsided into a resentful silence.  
  
Brian waited until they were out of earshot from the rest of their soldiers before telling him in a low voice about the messenger from the guard tower that morning, and how Kevin had gotten the information about the underground passage from him.  Nick whistled in appreciation.  Kevin usually left such down and dirty persuasions to someone else.  He wished he’d been there.  Sounded like quite a show.  
  
Their path took them quickly through the eerily quiet upper steppe, almost untouched except for some broken windows, and around the now-contained fire in the middle steppe to the lower.  Here, by the north gate, was the most damage.  An entire row of shops and residences burned and gutted, bodies still laying in the street, a fire down toward the east gate still raging out of control.  Nick followed Brian to the guard tower by the North Gate, nodding to his soldiers as they passed, and into the shell of the small shop Kevin had made his command center once the City’s gates had been breached.  
  
It was empty, as was the small room behind it.  Brian poked through doorways and walked toward the back of the little building, and Nick looked around, hand on the hilt of his sword.  There was a stone floor, a long wooden table Kevin had used for the maps, and a fair amount of blood on the table and floor beneath it.  There was minor debris from the former occupant in a corner.  Otherwise, the room was empty.  
  
Brian returned to the front room, frowning, and Nick realized that Brian had expected to find the body of the messenger in this room.  From the amount of dried blood pooled on the stone floor, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.  Nick took one look at Brian’s grim face and left the building to talk to the quadrant guard captain.  
  
He remembered the bloody young man in the messenger uniform, the captain told Nick.  Kevin had been leaving with his guard for the passage to the palace, and had told him to have the mess in the command center cleaned up.  The men who’d found the boy inside had dragged him out to the street when he’d collapsed.  The captain thought he was dead.  He was pretty sure he’d seen the disposal detail load the body on the wagon earlier that afternoon.  
  
Nick returned to the room and relayed this to Brian, whose frown deepened.  He wanted to see the body, he said, and Nick sighed in irritation.  What did it matter?  Kevin had gotten all the important information on the underground passage from the messenger.  This, along with the complete surprise of their attack, had absolutely insured victory.  There were plenty more good looking young boys to prey on in this City; why was Kevin so set on finding one that he’d already tortured and used?  It didn’t make sense.  
  
Brian watched him silently until he ran down, and then grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him close.  His eyes had gone narrow, and Nick gulped, once.  
  
“First of all, yours is not to question why, little brother.  Yours is just to do what I say, and I don’t like the way you’re not remembering that right now.”  He leaned closer, until Nick could see the crystal blue depths of Brian’s eyes.  They looked colder than ice, even as Brian smiled suddenly.  Nick flinched, and tensed for the blow.  
  
“But you’re growing up now, and I guess it’s good for you to act like you do have a brain.”  He released the front of Nick’s shirt and pushed him against the wall.  “That messenger boy wasn’t just a messenger.  He was the Timberlake heir, the oldest boy, and hell only knows what he was doing slumming around the lower steppe, but we have to make . . . certain . . . he . . . is . . . dead.”  Brian punctuated each word with a long thin finger hard into Nick’s shoulder, and when he moved away Nick rubbed the area, soothing away the slight pain.  Brian tossed him another chilling look.  “I hope I don’t have to explain to you why this needs to be done.”  
  
Nick shook his head, still breathing a little hard, and Brian faced him again.  “Now, if I tell you what he looked like, and what he was wearing, do you think you and that captain of yours can check the bodies and the prisoners, and take care of this for me?”  
  
Nick nodded, feeling his face flush just like it had when he was a boy and Brian would talk down to him, everything in his tone and body language reminding Nick that he was just a cousin, not really a brother, not really an equal at all.  His flush of accomplishment over the easy victory was long gone.  
  
“Good.”  Brian stepped closer, and gifted Nick with a sweet smile.  “Good, I knew I could count on you, little brother.”  He leaned in and kissed him, once, hard on the lips, and then walked out, leaving Nick gasping in the dark, bloody room.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

Five  
 _  
. . . to follow still the changes of the moon . . ._  
William Shakespeare, “Othello III”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The moon had come and gone again before the fever seemed to break, bathing the boy in a heavy and foul smelling sweat.  The swelling around his neck had receded under the cold compresses JC wrapped around it, allowing him to breathe more easily.  The boy was sleeping deeply, his breath even.  JC debated waking him and trying to get him to eat some of the stew and bread the drudges had set outside the cell door bars that morning, or at least drink some more water, but decided the sleep would do him more good.  He’d feebly fought all of JC’s attempts to clean his wounds, his face contorting in panic before sinking back into a weak delirium, but JC was more concerned with infection than anything else.  His face and neck seemed clean, the cuts scabbing cleanly, but it was the blood he’d seen on the boy’s linen pants that worried him now.  
  
He brought the bucket of water and cloth over to where the boy lay, turning so the feeble light from the high narrow window provided a faint illumination.  He was young, JC thought absently as he examined the boy’s face.  Just a teenager, at least a couple years younger than JC himself.  He looked vaguely familiar, but then most people in the City did to JC.  His work in the Royal Yards brought him into contact with most of the population sooner or later, and he’d always had a terrible memory for names.  
  
He pulled the blanket down and gently rolled the boy to his stomach, doing his best not to disturb his deep sleep.  Once that was done he carefully pulled the tattered remains of the trousers aside, his nose wrinkling at the smell of stale blood.  
  
No question what had happened to the boy, JC thought grimly as he dipped and wrung out the cloth.  The pants had been sliced precisely down the back from just under the waistband to halfway down the back of the left thigh, and there were cuts and bruises all over the boy’s smooth rear end.  The streaks of caked blood and the lurid bruises made JC’s mouth tighten in sympathy.  
  
He was highly trained enough to sense the blow before it came, although the boy went from deep sleep to terrified action faster than JC had ever seen anyone move.  He deflected the wildly swinging arm instinctively, but backed away rather than moving to subdue as the boy’s swollen throat tangled around a strangled cry and he hit, kicked, scrabbled away from JC to flatten himself against the wall, his blue eyes wide and panic-stricken.  
  
“Fuck, fucker don’t touchmedon’t _touchme!!_ ” he gasped hoarsely, and JC froze, his hands up, one holding the still dripping cloth.  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low and calm as the boy heaved for breath.  He waited until the eyes stopped darting around the room, focused on him.  “Hey, I’m trying to help you clean up.  I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated, and the boy gulped, hard.  
  
“Where am I?” he demanded in what only could be termed a pathetic whisper, his throat swollen and his voice raspy.  JC watched as he slumped against the wall, his legs shaking, his eyes still wide and terrified.  He spoke slowly, keeping his voice low and calm.  
  
“I think we’re in the dungeons, below the palace,” he said, and watched the boy’s eyes blink rapidly, his mouth falling open as he panted, his face deathly white.  JC watched him carefully.  “The City was attacked.  There was an invasion, a battle.  Do you remember any of it?”  
  
For a long moment the boy’s face twisted in agony, his eyes filling with tears before slamming shut.  “No,” he whispered bleakly, his voice raw and hoarse.  “No, I don’t remember anything.”  His breath quickened, and he pressed farther against the stone wall.  JC looked away, up to the window, now glowing eerily with the sluggish yellow light that meant that somewhere the sun was shining.  
  
“Well, there was, and you were . . . hurt,” he said, carefully not looking at the boy even when he heard his breath hitch on a sob.  “You have some, some injuries, and they need to be cleaned so you don’t get an infection.  This isn’t a place you want to get sick in, and you’ve already had a fever . . .”  JC trailed off, feeling more than hearing the boy slide to the floor, still leaning against the wall.  He waited, the wet cloth cold in his hand.  
  
When the boy spoke again his voice was still watery but quieter, calmer.  “I don’t remember,” he repeated softly, and JC nodded.  He cleared his throat and muttered what sounded like an apology.  “I can, uhm, I want to clean myself,” he said, and JC nodded again, holding out the cloth and indicating the bucket of water, before politely turning his back and moving to the far side of the cell, looking out to the empty corridor.  He heard the boy hiss with pain, and the splashing of water, and when he heard him groan he turned around again to see him lying back on the blankets, his face drawn with exhaustion.  
  
“Do you want something to eat?” he asked, and the boy shook his head no, wearily.  He moved to take the bucket of bloody water and found blue eyes half open and looking up at him warily.  He smiled a little, nodded and moved away.  
  
“Tell me your name,” the boy said unexpectedly, and JC paused halfway across the cell, surprised at the hint of demand in the voice.  
  
“Josh.  Joshua Chasez,” he answered quietly, and the boy nodded.  The tickle of recognition whispered at the back of JC’s mind, again, and he frowned thoughtfully when the boy muttered “thought so.”  
  
“It’s JC, right?” he said unexpectedly, his voice still painfully hoarse.  
  
“It is,” JC said slowly.  
  
“Thank you for helping me, JC,” he muttered sleepily and JC was drawn back to his side, looking thoughtfully down at the battered face.  
  
“Do I know you?” he asked the boy curiously, and the boy shook his head again, no.  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
The boy hesitated for a long moment.  “My name’s Justin,” he said, eyes already closed in sleep.  There were black bruised circles under them.  JC watched him for a long time.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It was two days, or maybe three, before Justin was sufficiently recovered to get up, stiffly, from the blankets and to politely thank JC for the stew and bread he handed him.  He had fine manners, JC noted, watching Justin eat his stew.  He must have been starving, but he ate slowly, chewing with his mouth closed.  JC studied the dirty blond curls, the straight nose, the clear skin.  This was no street rat; he had upper steppe written all over him, in his posture, in the way he carefully wiped his mouth between bites of the stew.  And if he was upper steppe, JC would’ve seen him in the yards.  He scanned his memory, frowning.  The name was a common one, and there was something vaguely familiar about the boy, but he was old enough to be in the highest levels of Yard classes and JC would’ve certainly taught him if he had been.  But he was quite sure he’d never seen him in class.  
  
Justin glanced up to see JC watching him and sat up straight on the hard stone floor, wincing a little, wary.  
  
“Who are you?” JC asked without preamble, and Justin blinked.  His chin came up, almost haughtily, and his eyebrows drew together.  For a moment JC thought he’d refuse to answer.  
  
“I’m just asking,” he continued, quietly, “because you look familiar to me.  I’m not trying to pry.”  
  
Justin flushed white, and then red.  He froze, before swallowing with some difficulty.  
  
“I told you,” he muttered.  “My name is Justin.”  He spooned another careful mouthful of the stew, chewed methodically, and swallowed before adding, “and I’m not anybody.”  
  
JC continued to frown.  “I’m sure I’ve seen you before,” he said, and watched curiously as Justin’s flush deepened.  
  
“You might’ve seen me at the Yards,” he said quietly.  “I couldn’t take classes, but I watched a lot.  I’ve seen you there, teaching.”  He took a bite of the hard yeasty bread, and his face, under the bruises, was still red.  He wouldn’t look at JC.  
  
They ate in silence as JC searched for something to say.  
  
“Why didn’t you take class?” he asked finally, and he studied his stew pail closely so he wouldn’t embarrass Justin.  
  
“Uhm, my parents, my mom mostly, thought it was too dangerous when I was little, and later it was kind of too late,” he answered sullenly, and then JC did look up.  
  
“Too late?  It’s never too late, they should know that.  The Yards are open to everyone . . .” he trailed off as his eyes studied Justin’s face more closely.  The dirty blond curls, the blue eyes, the cheekbones and the shape of the mouth . . .  
  
Of course.  The royal yards had been busy, bustling places but he recalled the boy who had often stood on the outside of the Yard wall, usually in the shadowed corner of the weapons room, watching JC’s class with huge eyes.  The oldest prince, Tony had mentioned once.  He’d been hurt in his early Yard lessons, a broken arm or something, and his overprotective parents had been unwilling to risk more injuries even after the two younger children had been born.  The Yard wasn’t for everybody.  Many kids dropped out after passing their basics tests, but Justin hadn’t even had that.  JC felt like an idiot, and in the back of his mind he heard every scolding his Yard master had ever given him on the subject of observation and analysis.  He took in Justin’s battered face, his still awkward posture and the painful, stiff way he moved, and he shook his head grimly.  The poor kid hadn’t even known how to defend himself.  
  
“So, you never wanted to learn more?” he asked, just to break the silence, and Justin looked up sharply.  
  
“I didn’t say that,” he said bitterly.  “I just, I was busy, you know, with . . . things, and I would just come watch when I had time.”  He flushed again, and JC watched with interest.  “Just, once in a while, you know.”  
  
Once in a while, and pretty much every time JC taught a class, now that he thought about it.  If the situation hadn’t been so tragic, it might have made him smile.  
  
They finished the meal in silence, and Justin, still healing, slept for most of the next few days and nights.  Often he woke himself up with nightmares, and JC would pretend to be asleep so Justin could sob in private.  Other times he wouldn’t wake, crying out when he dreamed, twitching and gasping desperately, and sometimes JC would leave his own blanket and crouch next to him, murmuring his name and telling him he was safe.  He never knew if Justin heard him, and he dared not touch him, but usually Justin quieted, his brow smoothing out and his breathing becoming more level when JC spoke to him, low and soothing.  
  
And it was a desperate sort of joke, because they weren’t safe at all.  From inside their cell they could hear distant screams echoing grotesquely from far down the curving corridors, and in fact JC thought he might be in the most dangerous place in the City right now.  Especially considering who he shared his cell with.  Justin was silent when he was awake, generally not even speaking unless JC spoke first, but in this strange universe where JC’s entire life had narrowed down to this tiny dark cell, it seemed terribly important to keep Justin quiet when he slept.  He felt that not drawing attention to themselves was the most prudent thing to do.  
  
JC passed the first week or so this way, gradually losing all sense of time, able to tell whether it was day or night only by the odd shadings drifting down from the small ventilation window far above his head.  He found himself standing under it, head lifted as he strained for some light or noise from the outside world, or even a puff of fresh, clean air.  Anything that would distract him from the fact that he was trapped deep below the ground, with untold tons of heavy stone pressing down around him, suffocating him.  As his own injuries healed, determining what time of day it was became how JC spent most of his waking hours.  Until the morning the sickly muted light didn’t come.  
  
JC had been awake for most of the night, watching the patterns shift on the stone wall as the cold moon set and the light gradually began to turn from a deep blue to a muddy amber.  Justin had been a silent and motionless huddle of blankets far from where JC sat, deep in the dark depths of the cell.  The noises started at what must have been dawn, solid thuds that echoed slightly and reverberated under his feet, followed by scraping noises, then more irregular thumps, deep and solid.  He stood under the window, eyes straining to see, ears straining to hear.  
  
JC was aware that Justin had woken, had been able to tell by the slight change in his breathing, but he kept his attention on the window, standing in the cell and staring up at the bars more than five feet over his head.  There was nothing to see, just a tiny fragment of what must have been part of the City’s outer wall, dark gray stone blocking out all but the faintest of light.  His breath felt short, like he’d been running, and his eyes burned, making the far away window swim and disappear.  
  
Another scrape, another deep and resonating thud, and the faint light seemed to grow even fainter.  Justin left his pile of blankets on the far end of the cell and crossed the cool floor to stand a careful distance beside JC.  They watched the window together as there was another scrape, another deep thump, and again the light from outside seemed to dim.  
  
“What is it?” Justin asked in a whisper.  His hands tugged nervously at the bottom of his shirt, but JC didn’t spare him a glance, his eyes fixed on the window.  It was getting later, and even this far below ground the light should be growing.  He fought down his own panic, the smothering claustrophobia, and struggled to keep his voice calm, to keep his panic from showing.  
  
“I think, I think they’re raising the City’s wall,” he said quietly, and heard Justin’s swift intake of breath.  They stood silently, listening to the odd rhythm of scraping mortar and dropping stone, and watched the final slice of early daylight dim.  
  
JC wasn’t aware that Justin had spoken to him, had moved closer.  It wasn’t until he reached out and tentatively touched JC’s arm that JC realized he’d been standing in the same position, staring up at the window, for what had probably been too long.  His neck was cramped and stiff, his eyes burning.  He tore his gaze away with difficulty, blinking hard as he strained to focus on Justin’s face.  
  
“I said,” Justin repeated, his voice quiet and patient, “that they brought some food.  It’s here.  You should eat.”  
  
JC waved his hand dismissively, his eyes drawn back to the window almost against his will.  “Not hungry,” he said.  “You go ahead.”  
  
Even a couple of days ago Justin would’ve probably shrugged and done just that, because there was too little food each day, and they were both always hungry.  But now he didn’t move, his eyes intent on JC’s face.  
  
“No,” he said softly.  “No, JC.  C’mon, you have to eat too.”  He smiled a little as JC turned reluctantly away from the window and looked at him, uncomprehending.  “C’mon,” Justin said, again reaching out a hand to touch JC’s elbow, turning him away from the window.  “C’mon, shake it off.  I hate to eat by myself.  Did you know that?”  He kept up a steady stream of nonsense conversation as he drew JC away from the window and toward the cell door, where the pails and their unappetizing contents waited.  “Just have some,” he said, easily, and JC followed.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Six

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Six  
 _  
. . . the moon shines bright: in such a night as this . . ._  
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It had been many years since JC had shared sleeping quarters.  The Undermaster quarters for the royal Yards were not spacious, but each of them had had their own room with a small study attached and they were quiet, private.  Before that he’d been in the students’ quarters with the other Outside children, and though the common rooms had been crowded and chaotic, even then each child had had their own small room to sleep and study in.  Training didn’t end when you left the Yard at the end of each day.  
  
He remembered thinking that a private sleeping area was an unbelievable luxury when he’d arrived in the City, torn between pride over being selected for training in the royal yards, terror that his selection had been a huge mistake, and a homesickness that had been just short of desperate.  His father’s farm, several miles outside the City’s wall, had been huge, but the farmhouse had been small, and he’d shared his bedroom with his younger brother for as long as he could remember.  It had taken him months to adjust to sleeping without the comforting sound of another’s deep even breath.  
  
But it had been so long since he’d shared a room with anyone other than the occasional lover, and he told himself that it was his gradually healing concussion that made deep sleep impossible.  The days and nights in the dungeon seemed endless and JC, accustomed to a physically and mentally active life, thought the boredom might be the worst part of this.  Worse than the pain of his head wound, the concern over Justin, who was tall and strong for his age but who seemed somehow desperately fragile to JC, and the fear of what might happen next.  
  
The royal Yards required the children to attend regular school as well as their Yard lessons, and from his classes in history and military strategy JC had surmised that the City had been taken over by a hostile force from another City.  The invaders had been too well equipped and too organized to be a random group of bandits from Outside, but JC didn’t know enough about politics to guess where they had come from.  He had never paid much attention to such things, content to make the Yards, the classes, his friends his whole life.    
  
He wondered if Justin would have any idea of who had taken over his City, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.  Justin never, ever mentioned the events of the day of the invasion.  He was courteous and polite, but seemed deeply lethargic.  He spent hours staring into space when he was awake, and still was having violent nightmares when he slept.  JC knew that the intruders had almost certainly killed Justin’s entire family, and bringing up the invasion hardly seemed ideal ice breaking material.  
  
Justin seemed to heal quickly but he spent much of his time sleeping, rousing only to eat the meals delivered by the prison drudges and to use the tepid bathing water that was irregularly supplied along with mostly clean clothing.  He had sighed with relief when a morning meal delivery had included clean clothing, and had not even watched when his tattered and bloody uniform had been carried away by the uncaring drudge.  He’d turned away modestly, but JC had seen Justin smile little, his mouth a wry sort of grimace as he pulled the cleaner clothes on, plain cotton, stiff with harsh detergents and much more like Yard clothes than his finely made royal messenger outfit.  He’d stood straighter, adjusting the shoulder seams and sleeves, stroking the rough material.  Even stiff from the scabbed-over cuts and scrapes the little smile had lit up Justin’s face and JC had stared, forgetting Justin’s modesty for a moment as he took in the white teeth, the way the blue eyes sparkled.  He’d seen this boy standing outside the Yard countless times, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile.  
  
For a few weeks JC waited tensely for something to happen.  Interrogation, maybe, or torture, or for he and Justin to be simply be ignored and allowed to starve to death.  Knowing who shared his cell made him all the more certain that such things were imminent, but as the days dragged on he gradually relaxed.  No guards came to question them, there were no offers of oath papers and release, the food came fairly regularly, and they seemed to have been forgotten by all but the hunched drudges, who left the pails of food and water where they could be easily reached between the bars of the door but never looked at them or responded to questions.  
  
It was Justin who suggested they start marking the days with scratch marks on the light gray stone, in an attempt to keep track of the passing days, and JC who suggested the question games, to keep their minds active while their bodies healed.    
  
There was an unspoken agreement that they would not talk about the day of the invasion.  
  
“Farthest you’ve ever been Outside,” Justin asked one day, his voice low and quiet.  JC paced the length of their cell, forcing himself to complete two lengths before he allowed himself to answer.  
  
“Uhm, the north border of my parents’ farm,” he responded, his own voice barely above a whisper.  Justin looked up, interested.  
  
“Where is that?” he asked, sitting up against the far wall.  Justin’s face was still scabbed but the bruises on his neck were fading to a dull yellow.  JC reached the wall next to him and pivoted, holding his arms out as he started to pace heel to toe across the length of the cell.  Justin waited patiently for him to answer.  
  
“My parents live on a farm, almost two days up the coast from the North Wall,” he said, carefully lining his feet against the straight edge of the floor stones.  “The house is on the southern tip, and the north border is about a half day ride from there.  My father took me with him when I was still at home, when he’d go to check on the harvest.”  He reached the far wall and pivoted, started back.  “So, that the farthest away I’ve ever been.”  
  
“How long ago was this?”  Justin’s eyes were bright with interest in his battered face, and when JC smiled at him he smiled back, one-sided.  
  
“Oh.  Hmmm, I was eight when the Yardmasters came through for testing, so it must have been the previous harvest?  I had just turned eight.”  He wondered with a pain that almost made him gasp whether the intruders had come from the north, if his family was even still alive.  He pushed the thought away with an effort.  There wasn’t a thing he could do about that right now.  
  
“And then you came here,” Justin prompted, and JC nodded as he continued to pace.  Long slow strides this time, lengthening his leg muscles to their utmost, moving slowly to work his balance.  He reached the wall and slid down beside Justin.    
  
“Then I came here, yeah, more than ten years ago, now.  My turn, same question.  Farthest you’ve been Outside.”  
  
“Do I have to get up?”  
  
JC smiled to take the sting out of his words.  “You do if you don’t want to get fat and slow.”  
  
“Fat?  On what they feed us?”  Smiling, Justin got to his feet, still moving slowly but standing upright at least, and started to pace heel to toe across the length of the cell.  “Farthest I’ve been was Kentwood’s City, to the west.”  
  
JC waited until Justin had almost reached the far wall.  “I think I’ve heard of it.”  
  
Justin pivoted and started slowly back, still heel to toe.  He kept his knees loose and bent so he didn’t windmill his arms, JC noted absently.  Even injured, he had natural balance.  Justin kept his eyes on his feet.  
  
“Yeah, you might have.  The Kentwoods . . . they’re some sort of distant relation on my . . . my father’s side,” he continued, and JC nodded in encouragement, pretending not to notice his hesitation.  “Last year we went to visit them, and to bring one of their daughters here.”  He reached the wall beside JC and pivoted.  He gingerly tried a couple of long strides, then faltered, and returned to his slow heel-toe.  JC grimaced in sympathy.  
  
“How far was that?”  
  
Justin voice was quiet.  “Uh, almost four days’ ride,” he said.  “I’d never been out of the walls before that, except to the shore,” he added.  “It was really cool.  But on the way back I had to ride inside with Britney, so that was a drag.”  He reached the far wall and turned, leaning against it for a moment.  JC could see the fine film of sweat on his brow as he started his careful way back.  He bit back the urge to tell him to be careful.  
  
“Britney?”  
  
“Yeah, she’s, like, some sort of distant cousin or something.  Her mother got sick, and my mother said she should come stay with us.  I think they think . . . thought . . . maybe we’d get married someday, or something.”  Justin’s shrug was casual, unconcerned, but his mouth was drawn in concentration as he heel-toed carefully across the cell.  JC watched him closely.  
  
“I’m guessing you didn’t agree,” he said, standing up as Justin reached the wall.  He glanced up and blinked to see Justin staring intently at him.  He looked away as soon as JC met his eyes, lowering himself to his small pile of blankets and leaning against the wall.  
  
“Britney . . . was okay.  Nice, pretty, you know,” he said quietly.  “But, no.  That was never going to happen.”  
  
JC watched in fascination as a red flush crept up Justin’s neck and into his cheeks.  The silence grew uncomfortable and JC stood against the wall, feeling heat steal into his own face and groping for something to say.  
  
Justin cleared his throat.  “My turn?”  
  
It wasn’t, but JC nodded and prepared to pace.  “Your turn.  Ask away.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Seven

Seven  
  
 _What beck’ning ghost, along the moonlight shade, invites my steps . . ._  
Alexander Pope, Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Time seemed to stand still in the dungeon, but outside it marched on.  The weather turned hotter, more humid, and the stone walls sweated condensation until their clothing and blankets always seemed damp.  Then the days gradually got cooler, becoming downright cold in the dark of night, and it was around that time that JC got sick.  
  
One morning waking up wasn’t like waking up at all.  He’d had strange thick dreams, dreams where he was being attacked and he couldn’t raise his sword arm to defend himself, dreams where his mother was calling him and he couldn’t move his mouth to answer, dreams where he was in the Yard before a full class and couldn’t remember the kata he’d been about to demonstrate.  Tony was there and he was so glad to see him, Tony would know how to get them out of this godforsaken dungeon, Tony was the best and brightest of the Undermasters and he was shaking JC’s shoulder and calling his name -- it must be time for class but he was so tired, he couldn’t even open his eyes and his head was pounding, and surely it couldn’t be time to get up yet.  Someone was trying to suffocate him with his blankets and he was sweating, burning up, kicking the blankets off and groaning irritably when hands pulled them over his body again, tucking them firmly around his shoulders.  
  
Tony’s voice again, or was it his brother’s?  He couldn’t tell.  There was a strange roaring in his ears but the voice seemed familiar and now he was grateful for the blankets because he was freezing to death.  His teeth chattered as he curled into himself, and there was the voice again, and with a huge effort he pried his eyelids open and looked across the cell.  
  
For a moment the curly haired young man at the barred door seemed completely unfamiliar and then JC remembered where he was.  Justin was talking to someone on the other side of the door, his voice louder and more strident than JC had ever heard it.  He was asking for something, demanding it, water, clothes, a doctor?  JC’s brow knotted and his vision wavered, and it seemed like he was looking at Justin through a thick glass wall, his form undulating closer and than far away, the sound of his voice tinny and distant.  JC’s head pounded with pain and he shut his eyes with relief.  
  
The next time he woke Justin was beside him, and he was choking because Justin had just poured water into his mouth.  He was half sitting up, Justin’s arm warm and tight around his shoulders, and he was murmuring encouragement as he tipped the cup of water again into JC’s mouth.  
  
“C’mon, JC.  You gotta drink this,” as JC sputtered and started to cough weakly.  His throat was on fire and he pulled feebly at the blankets pooled at his waist.  He shivered with cold, and Justin’s arm tightened around his shoulders, forcing the cup to his mouth again.  
  
“You haven’t eaten in four days.  You gotta drink this,” Justin repeated as JC tried to push the cup away, and his voice was high pitched, desperate.  “No, no, no, c’mon . . .”  The cup was back and JC felt a raging thirst as the water touched his lips again.  He leaned heavily against Justin’s warm body and wrapped a shaking hand around the smooth metal cup, forcing the water past his raw and aching throat.  He finished it with a sigh and started to shiver again as Justin eased him down and tucked his blankets around him.  He was faintly aware of Justin sponging off his face and talking quietly to him, could feel himself sweating even as he shivered.  He tried to ask for another blanket but couldn’t make his throat work.  Then it was dark again, and he was so grateful.  
  
It was some undetermined time later, and he felt like he’d been trying to wake up for a long time, expending a huge amount of effort to claw himself out of the thick not-quite-sleep that he was mired in, and then suddenly he was floating effortlessly up, and his eyes popped open.  There was a dark blue light coming from the small window high up on the far wall, and he wasn’t cold or warm, but deliciously comfortable.  He lay absolutely still, his body as limp as an old dishrag, but there was no pain and he realized that he’d been feverish for at least a couple of days, and that the fever must have broken.  The utter weakness of his body was a telling contrast to the fragile clarity of his thoughts.  
  
He didn’t, and couldn’t, move, but he was aware of a warm body curled close to his back and an arm wrapped firmly around him.  There was an extra blanket over him as well.  Justin, he thought gratefully, must have shared his blankets and body heat with JC when he was shaking with the fever.  Trying to take care of him.  His eyes were already drifting shut again, and he was reassured to feel Justin’s arm creep around his waist and pull him closer.  He sighed and floated easily back to sleep.  
  
His next trip on the road to consciousness was much easier, and he was accompanied by familiar things like his usual early morning fuzziness and the savage growl of his empty stomach.  He was on his other side, his nose nuzzled into the back of Justin’s neck and his arm draped over Justin’s hip.  His hand was sandwiched by Justin’s hands and clamped warmly between Justin’s thighs.  Justin seemed deeply asleep, but he was hard and moving a little, his groin rocking against JC’s hand, and JC’s body, curled tightly against Justin’s hips, was responding.  The friction as Justin’s hips moved lazily almost made JC groan, and it was wrong, and he was going to move away right now, in just a second, pull his hand away from Justin’s warm groin and roll away from the firm buttocks pressing against him, then sliding away, now pressing . . .   
  
Justin exploded into a whirling tangle of elbows, blankets and hard kicking feet, scrambling away from JC, gasping for breath.  “. . . fucking bastard _get off of me_ . . .” he spat as JC sat up, still fuzzy headed.  The cell spun a little and he put out a hand to brace himself.  
  
“Justin,” he started, ready to offer an apology or even a joke about early morning wood, but he was stopped by the sheer fury on Justin’s face.  
  
“Fucker!”  Justin hissed at him, his eyes huge and wild in his flushed face.  “I swear to god I’ll kill you if you touch me again,” he gasped, and JC eyed him carefully.  Not fury, he saw.  Terror.  
  
There was silence in the dark cell, broken only by Justin’s harsh breaths and the rustle of the blankets as JC climbed unsteadily to his feet.  He strove for a matter of fact tone of voice, his eyes on the pile of blankets and not on Justin’s flushed face.  
  
“Look, I’m sorry about that,” he murmured.  “Just the morning stuff, you know?  Nothing personal.”  He waited for a response.  There was none, but Justin’s breathing seemed less harsh, and JC decided to try changing the subject.  
  
“Hey, thanks for taking care of me, Justin.  I don’t remember much, but I’m really glad you were here.”  He aimed a smile in Justin’s general direction.  His head was still spinning a little, and he leaned heavily against the wall.  The silence stretched thickly between them.  He heard Justin’s breath hitch and thought maybe he was crying.  He didn’t look at him until Justin pried himself away from the far wall and walked slowly across the cell to him, folding the remaining blankets and sitting against the wall, a careful distance away from JC.  Far off in the distance they heard the rattle of what must be the cart bringing their breakfast.  JC hoped there was bathing water today; his own stink made his nose wrinkle.  
  
“Look, Justin.  I know what happened to you.  I mean, I saw them bring you in, and I know what happened.  I just, I want you to know that I’d never do something like that to you.  Or to anyone.”  He heard Justin’s breath hitch again, and he fought the urge to turn around and face him.  “You took care of me, and I think you might’ve saved my life here, but even if you hadn’t I’m not the sort of person to . . . do that kind of thing to another person.”  He prayed that Justin’s silence meant understanding.  The wheels of the cart bringing their food moved closer.  One of them needed to be oiled.  
  
“Fine.  I don’t care.  I don’t care, I just . . .  I don’t want you touching me.  I refuse to have anyone touch me, I forbid it.  Do you understand?”  The words made JC bristle, even though they didn’t go with the tone.  They were haughty and aggressive even though Justin’s voice was small, unspeakably weary and thick with tears.  
  
“Hey, I just told you,” JC said dully.  “Even if you weren’t a _child_ , even if you weren’t the only other person in this fucking cell . . .”  He broke off and took a deep breath, hissing a curse.  The walls seemed to close in on him again, making his breath short, and he rubbed his forehead, fighting to breathe calmly.    
  
“Look.  I just said, I’m not like that,” he said finally.  Justin had the grace to look down, his face blushing with shame, and JC looked away, irrationally angry and insulted.  The squeaky-wheeled cart came to halt and they heard the drudge’s slow steps approaching their cell door, and Justin got to his feet, ready to retrieve whatever was on the other side when the drudge moved away.  He hesitated, standing next to JC, and JC forced himself to look up, keeping his expression neutral.  
  
“Are you . . . do you feel better?”  Justin’s voice was ragged, hesitant, and JC turned his eyes back to the barred door across the cell.  
  
“Yeah, better.  Tired, but not so out of it, you know?”  He felt rather than saw Justin’s nod.  
  
“Are you hungry?” Justin asked hesitantly.  Even the prospect of the awful food they were usually presented with made JC’s stomach growl ferociously.  He nodded, silently, and Justin shuffled his feet.  
  
“You’ve been really sick,” Justin said, quietly.  “You need to eat.  You, uhm, you can have my portion too, if you want it.”  
  
And that, apparently, was all the apology he was going to get.  JC watched Justin walk to the barred door, tall and straight, his outer injuries healed.  He moved with a easy sort of grace, and when he turned back to JC, his hands full of pails holding food and water, he shot him a shy and conciliatory smile, all blue eyes and curly hair and pale smooth skin.  And that was when a little voice deep inside JC whispered that maybe he did want him, after all, and he averted his eyes, disgusted with himself.  
  
For the first time since the very beginning, in all the months they had been locked in this cell together, the silence between them was thick and uncomfortable.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	9. Eight

Eight  
  
 _I’ll come to thee by moonlight . . ._  
Alfred Noyes, “The Highwayman”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The dream gripped him hard and held him motionless beneath a suffocating blanket of terror. The avenue of the lower steppe was deepest black except for a cold red light from the opening in the gate, and he needed to run, to get home to warn his family that the danger was coming. But everything looked unfamiliar in the dark and he was lost, and now there were quiet footsteps following him, low and sly puffs of breath from someone who remained just out of sight, pacing him evenly, effortlessly, and no matter how hard he ran he couldn't get away.  
  
Justin jolted awake gasping for breath, his hands at his own throat scrabbling frantically at a rope that wasn't there, eyes wide in the dimness of the cell. A dream, he thought, trying to slow his racing heart. Just a dream. But then he heard the same quiet footfall and soft breath and whipped around, eyes searching frantically for his pursuer.  
  
But it was only JC, moving quietly at the far end of the cell, and Justin’s breath left him in a dizzying combination of relief and a different kind of suspense.  Pale moonlight bled weakly through the narrow barred opening far up on the wall, and as he watched Justin wondered whether this illumination was why JC waited until the small hours of the morning to practice. But as JC turned, bending, stretching, body flexing rhythmically in movements that were more like dancing than fighting, Justin saw that his eyes were closed tight. JC pivoted and twisted, kicking hard and then spinning and ducking, and with his body still racing with adrenalin from his nightmare Justin could almost see the invisible opponent. The high barred window caused odd patterns on JC's body as he moved, checkering him with black and gray. His muscles flexed, his skin glimmered with sweat in the pale and silvery light.  His right hand gripped around a weapon that wasn't there, his sword arm slightly weighted as though it was.  
  
Justin's breath caught in his throat as he watched. JC's eyes were still closed, his mouth open as he breathed rapidly and evenly. He looked so light, too thin, but there was a kind of savage precision in the movements of his body, coiled and hidden power in the long, lean form. Justin watched silently as JC feinted, parried, lunged. He didn't realize he was on his feet, moving slowly toward JC until he had crossed the whole of the long dark cell and JC, eyes still closed, whirled around and touched the blade of his invisible sword to Justin's throat. They both froze and JC's eyes opened, slowly.  
  
Justin swallowed hard, wondering dizzily if JC ever had nightmares, if he had ever had any reason to. JC tilted his head, questioningly, and slowly dropped his hand. He relaxed, but power still crackled around him even as he stepped back from Justin and raised an eyebrow.  
"Did I wake you?" he inquired mildly.  
  
"No, no, it was . . ." Justin trailed off, still shaking from the aftermath of the dream and the first tentative glints of an idea, of something he wanted.  He was suddenly very aware of the silence and the distance between him and JC in the weeks since JC had been ill.  He took a deep breath and tried to order his thoughts.  "I want, I mean, I wondered . . ."  
  
"What?" JC was impatient now, stretching his arms away and up, flexing his fingers. "You should be sleeping."  
  
"JC." Justin's voice was still not working properly. "I want . . ."  
  
JC went still again, his eyes silver blue in the pale moonlight. "What? You want something? You're not in the palace anymore; if you want something you have to ask for it. Politely."  
  
Justin could only whisper. "I wish, I want, would you . . ." he gulped and finished in a whisper. "Would you teach me?"  
  
JC looked at him for a long moment, and when he answered his voice was no louder than Justin's. "Why do you want to learn?"  
  
Justin breathed quickly, knowing this was the most important thing. His eyes burned into JC's, trying to communicate his desperation as his lips formed the words. "I don't want to be afraid anymore. I need not to be so afraid." He waited, feeling the tension coil tightly in his stomach. "Please."  
  
JC's face didn't change but his eyes softened a little as he took in Justin's tense stance, the hands curled tightly into fists at his side. He nodded slowly, watching as Justin slumped a little in relief. "Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow night, okay?"  
  
Justin nodded, eagerly, and JC smiled at him, and suddenly it seemed lighter in the dank little cell, the air less heavy. "You should get some rest."  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Nine

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Nine  
  
 _In the first of the moon,  
All’s a scattering, a shining_  
Theodore Roethke, Meditation at Oyster River  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The news that the Richardson family had taken over yet another City in the southeast reached Chris when he was miles away, deep in the western mountain territory.  He’d been gone from his home for more than a year now, and in these heavily rural areas news was often months out of date.  
  
He’d come to the small village for supplies, preparing for a three-day trek northeast.  It was a modest, sleepy little market town that he’d visited previously, and he was shocked to find it absolutely crammed with people, traders, travelers.  The single small boarding house was filled to capacity, and people were camped in fields wherever flat ground could be found.  Chris bid a mental farewell to his hope of a good night’s sleep in a real bed, preceded and followed by a real shower, and philosophically set up his tent beneath a tall whispering pine tree on the outskirts of the village marketplace.  Then he set out to get the news.  
  
Chris’s favorite part of being a traveling, teaching master was the opportunity to meet new people, to learn something about them and the local customs.  Chris loved to talk, and as with most people who truly loved to talk, people found it easy to talk to him.  And after more than a year of traveling, he knew exactly where to go to get the latest news and rumors circulating through this part of the world.  Checking to make sure he had enough coin, he headed for the village’s single, small pub.  
  
Usually his money was not needed.  Traveling masters with the proper credentials were always welcomed wherever Yards were kept, whether it was a small village or a prosperous, walled City.  A week of teaching usually earned him his meals, offers of lodging for as long as he wanted to stay, and enough ale at the local pub to make him feel welcomed.    But this village didn’t have a Yard -- the closest organized Yard was almost a full day’s ride away --  and Chris had been concentrating in this area for several weeks, talking to the local farmers, testing their children.  He’d been holding a beginner training session for a large group of the local children for the past month, teaching them their basics, and had found several who had both talent and the drive to learn more.  He’d come to this village to post a letter to the Yard Master at the City of Millwood, a day’s ride away, to notify them of the candidates’ names.  
  
And to get news.  And by the looks of it, today there was plenty.  
  
The main topic of conversation in the small, dimly lit pub was that the Richardson family had taken over another City.  It wasn’t the first time Chris had heard of the Richardsons.  The farther east he’d traveled, the more he’d heard the name of the family that had abandoned their own City and made careers out of taking over and looting others.  Their leader was Kevin Richardson, and according to the solemn old man at the local pub, he was something of a genius at strategy.   Kevin and his brothers had taken over their first City, somewhere high up the big river, all by themselves with only the help of a few loyal guards.  He had sent them to infiltrate the neighboring City’s guard, stealthily killed the royal family in the night and then held the City’s entire fresh water supply hostage until the royal guard had surrendered the battle rather than have the populace die.  In less than two years the Richardsons had systematically looted the City of its treasures, bled its resources dry, and before abandoning it had dammed a tributary of the big river and changed its course so the powerful water would destroy the City’s walls.    
  
Chris, who felt his safest and most secure inside the walls of his home City, shuddered at the tale.  
  
The pub was full to overflowing with people, travelers for the most part, all looking for news.  Chris got his beer and sat at the bar, idly listening to half a dozen conversations swirl around him.  Some were about the mountain passes to the east, whether the winter had damaged them.  Some were about the safety of the roads to the north, and Chris realized that most of the travelers seemed to be coming from the east.  The east, where his own home and family were.  He took a long gulp of his beer and forced himself to narrow in on the conversation that would give him the information he was looking for.  
  
He found it with the bartender, who had been listening to travelers for the better part of a month, he said.  It was the Richardsons -- they’d taken another City, a big and prosperous one, way out east on the ocean’s shore.  “People are moving away,” he said, taking in the crowded pub with a thoughtful eye.  “Those that were headed east were going back where they came from.  Those that are from the east are tryin’ to get away.  Lots of travel on the roads these days.”  
  
“But why?” Chris had asked.  “If they have goods to trade, why not trade with the new rulers, just like the old?  What’s the big difference?”  
  
The bartender had frowned, leaning closer.  “From what people say, the Richardsons don’t just take over and run a City, business as usual.  They’re not after just the business.  They kill the ruling family, and whatever cabinet helps run things.  They’re just after the money, and they bleed the City dry.  They threaten the farmers Outside to produce more, and if they don’t hit their quotas they throw them out and take away their farms and homes.  They force the City workers to work twice as much for a fraction of the pay.  And if anyone complains, if there’s even a hint of any sort of organized rebellion, they kill everyone they even suspect is involved.  And there’s one brother who runs the dungeons, and he’s the one that keeps the City people in line.  From the dungeons, they say.  He has  . . machines and stuff.”  The bartender grimaced in distaste.  “And they have an army now, a big army of mercenaries that they let run wild, killing people, kidnaping them.  People lose family members to slavery, to the army’s brothels, and they don’t got no say in anything.”  He shrugged.  “They ain’t civilized, I guess.  And people, they get mighty attached to their homes, you know?  Nobody wants to see their City ruined, and that’s what the Richardsons do.”  
  
Chris absorbed this carefully, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart, the tension that made his fingers curl against the tankard until the knuckles turned white.  There had been no word from his mother or his sister in over a month, although he’d been in the same area for longer than that.  He’d put the silence down to how busy his mother always was in the spring, to his sister winding up her school year, to life.  He took another deep pull from his beer, and wiped his mouth before asking, “where did you say they were?  The Richardsons?”  
  
The bartender had shrugged.  “Some big City out on the coast,” he said.  “Timberlake, someone said.”  
  
Chris felt the room twist sickly around him, and he wiped a shaking hand across his damp forehead.  Home was a hard two-week ride away.  He wondered if he could make it in one.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Ten

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Ten  
  
 _Quietly shining to the quiet moon_  
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Frost at Midnight  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
He was doing it again, and Justin watched with concerned eyes.  
  
They had sort of divided up the small cell, Justin generally content to stay against the far wall, deep in the darkest portion of the dungeon.  He felt safer there, his back against the cool stone, where he could easily see the door and the window.  JC spent most of his time pacing the width of the cell, stepping from the barred door to the high ventilation window.  He seemed to understand Justin’s need for space, and gave him as much as he could.  
  
Then there were times like these, when JC would stand motionless for hours under the tiny barred window high up on the wall.  His neck craned at a painful angle, his eyes narrowed down to slits, his breathing shallow.  Often when Justin spoke to him he wouldn’t respond, and Justin watched, and worried.  
  
During his waking hours Justin kept as busy as he possibly could, pacing, playing question games with JC, discussing random topics that had nothing to do with where they were and why.  He peered cautiously through the barred door, trying to see down the dark curved corridor, straining to make sense of the far-off sounds of the main dungeon even when those sounds frightened him.  They whispered about possibilities of escape, painting complex scenarios that brought the meal drudges into the cell where they could be overpowered, although no one had set foot inside their dungeon since the day Justin had been brought in.  They speculated about what, if any, nutritional value the slop in the meal pails contained.  They bet on idle, useless things; how long before the next meal delivery, would the torch around the corner from their doorway be lit that night, would there be four hard, stale little biscuits or only two.  If Justin hadn’t been fighting a constant, low-level terror, always worried that the next set of echoing screams would be his own, he would’ve been bored to death.  But now he grasped each distraction with relief.  He was grateful for anything that kept his mind busy.  
  
It was only when he slept that the things he refused to think about tormented him.  
  
Justin’s demons chased him ruthlessly through his dreams, an endless dark spiral of pain and terror, of helpless fury and bitter despair.  The dreams were foggy nightmares with hands that tore at his skin, and they wore the faces of his mother and his baby brothers, narrow eyed and accusatory.  When he awoke gasping with terror, he would look around the dark cell until he felt JC’s quiet, calm presence, and the strong cool walls around them, and he would collapse in a relief that made him writhe with shame and self loathing.  It seemed so sick and wrong to think of the dank, bleak cell as a refuge.  
  
He leaned against the wall and watched JC carefully, still motionless under the window.  
  
Justin remembered JC from the royal Yards as a skinny, handsome young man with brilliant blue eyes and a gorgeous smile.  He’d had a high pitched laugh that was rarely heard inside the Yards, where he had a reputation as a very serious student, an amazingly talented Yard man, and a promising teacher.  He seemed to have so many friends, was so focused and dedicated, and Justin had been fascinated by him, by his life.  Justin had spent hours watching him work out, watching him teach, trying to memorize the katas and pinyons so he could practice them secretly in his room.  But most of what he remembered was JC’s easy grace, the confidence he had that made the most complex maneuvers look simple, and his smile.  Always his smile.  
  
JC didn’t smile much anymore.  At first, Justin had assumed that when JC stood silent and still for huge spaces of time while staring up at the barred ventilation window he was trying formulate a way out.  He’d asked him about it once, pointing out, helpfully he thought, that even if they could find a way up there to remove the iron bars, there was no chance that either of them would fit through the tiny vent.  JC had shaken his head, distracted, not even looking at Justin when he replied “No, no, there no way.  I know that.  I’m just . . .”  He’d frowned and seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment before continuing, never taking his eyes off the narrow window, the light a slighter paler shade of black against the dungeon walls.  “I guess I’m just hoping for some air, or some light.” he finished quietly.  “I can’t stand it in here.  I feel like I can’t breathe.”  
  
It surprised him to realize that JC was stifled by the enclosed space, the stale air, that he was, perhaps, as panic stricken by the dark enclosed space as Justin was comforted by it.  Justin understood, and he made an extra effort to distract JC when he saw him frozen under the high window, his eyes narrowed  and his breath short.  
  
He was grateful every day for JC’s presence.  He didn’t know what he’d do if he’d been imprisoned alone, or with someone he couldn’t tolerate.  But JC was a good companion, easy going and good natured and polite, and he helped Justin keep his mind busy.  He hadn’t truly appreciated JC until he’d gotten sick, and the thought of him dying, on top of all the other death and pain that had haunted him since the day of the invasion, had flooded Justin with panic.  
  
He stood now, and made his way quietly across the cell until he stood next to JC.  JC didn’t acknowledge him until he spoke his name, touched his arm.  “Hey,” he said, softly, aware that JC wasn’t really listening to him, maybe wasn’t even hearing him.  He kept talking until JC turned to look at him, blinking.  
  
“I was thinking, maybe you could show me those beginning katas again?” Justin asked, careful to keep his tone polite and respectful.  “I wanted to practice them more, but I don’t want to disturb you if you need a break . . . “ he trailed off hopefully, and was rewarded when JC rubbed his forehead and nodded.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, his voice gravelly from disuse.  “Yeah, let’s do that.”  JC’s smile was small but grateful, and Justin smiled back.  “Take our minds off stuff, right?”  
  
“Right,” Justin replied.  “And maybe you could show me those stretches you were doing yesterday?  Or was it the day before.  Because my calves are all knotted up today,” Justin said, leading JC away from the window and into the center of the cell.  He raised his eyebrows, coaxing another smile from JC.  “I figure I’m doing something wrong.”  
  
“No,” JC replied, gently.  “You’re not doing anything wrong.”    
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Eleven

Eleven  
  
 _The moon will wax, the moon will wane_  
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Kéramos  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Every Undermaster candidate had to demonstrate a certain level of competence for teaching before they could advance.  It had become something of an issue.  Most of the candidates, students themselves for years, resented the time they had to spend teaching, big chunks of time that required preparation and study.  When the masters had not been around to hear there had been dark grumblings in the candidates’ lodgings about what a waste of time it was, time that could be much better spent honing their own skills.    
  
JC had never been one of the grumblers.  He understood the importance of having good teachers, of instilling in the beginners a love of the Yard and all it stood for early, and well.  He’d looked forward to teaching, and had been dismayed when it turned out to be the thing that he found the hardest to do.  It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was doing, he had a wealth of carefully learned knowledge as well as a string of teachers who had provided excellent examples.  It was almost as if he had too much knowledge, too much to say, to demonstrate, to impart.  Along with the practical knowledge of punches and kicks and attack positions and defense positions he had an instinctive understanding of the psychological aspects of the Yard, the philosophical, the mental and emotional.  He had always thought it just as important for the beginners to get a sense of the mental part of the Yard as it was for them to practice the physical.  The emotional discipline was essential for students who were on the road to learning potentially deadly skills.    
  
JC had been brimming with enthusiasm, but the reality of teaching on his own had been demoralizing.  His thoughts, so clear inside his head, came out disorganized, words sometimes failed him completely, and before he knew it he’d wasted half the class’s Yard time with vague analogies and incomplete examples.  His beginner students, mostly children who had already been in a classroom for a big part of their day and were vibrating with pent-up energy, had at first been puzzled, and then bored and inattentive.  His early student teaching sessions had been incredibly painful.  
  
JC had been crushed by his failure.  Everything Yard-related had always come so joyously and naturally to him.  He couldn’t believe that his inadequacy as a teacher, the thing he was so anxious to do well, that would keep him from his Undermaster levels.  His Yard Master counseled patience, reminded him that teaching was a skill to be learned much like advanced pinyons and katas, and encouraged him to keep trying.  But JC had felt real despair, fearing that his dreams of attaining his Undermaster certification and the license to be a traveling teacher were over.    
  
It had been Tony, only a year ahead of him and his favorite sparring partner, who had advised him to save the philosophical and mental aspects of the Yard for the older students.  The mid-level students, he’d reminded JC, were there by choice.  They had already learned the basics and were looking for more.  They had longer attention spans, and demonstrated by simply being there that they were more serious about the intricacies of the Yard.    
  
He’d been right.  JC had limited his beginner class teachings to the physical, focusing on the basic stances, punches, kicks, and pinyons, keeping his small students physically active, and the classes had flown by.  When he got permission to teach the next level he introduced some basic mental preparation skills, but he spent no more than a few minutes on them each class, and he was surprised and gratified at how well his classes responded.  In time he’d been able to introduce more, and felt like he was finally presenting the art honestly and completely, by showing students that it was much more than flashy weapon maneuvers and deadly physical skills, that the discipline and the connection between the mind and body was the most important part of being a skilled Yardman.  Eventually teaching became the joy he’d always hoped it would be, and his evaluations had been excellent, and by the time of the invasion he’d been preparing to take his Master tests the following year, looking forward to a few years of travel, of discovering talent much as he’d been discovered all those years ago, of contributing to the art he loved in a lasting way.  
  
As he’d advanced through his Undermaster training, JC’s time had been increasingly taken up with advanced level and master classes, and with his own classes and workouts.  He’d forgotten how much fun it was to have students to whom it was all brand new, and amazing.  Teaching Justin was like learning himself, all over again.  
  
And here in the dungeon JC only had one student, of course, but Justin was an amazingly fast learner.  He’d been very anxious to begin training immediately and had woken JC up painfully early the next morning, poking him playfully in the shoulder hours before the morning meal, laughing at his grumbled protests.  He’d been so excited and happy, and his enthusiasm was contagious.  Not even the fact that the morning meal had not come, and there had been a whole cacaphony of screams and loud activity from far down the corridor hadn’t dimmed the brightness of Justin’s smile for long.  
  
Perhaps it was because Justin was significantly past the age when most beginners started Yard class, and perhaps it was because his interest in the Yard had been frustrated as a child, but JC had never seen someone so eager to learn.  He questioned JC endlessly, not only on the various stances, the form and function of each one, but on the mental skills, the preparation necessary for a good Yard workout, the different mind sets that came along with offense and defense.  Justin seemed to grasp intuitively that these basics were crucial building blocks to the more advanced skills, and he never demonstrated any reluctance to repeat them the endless number of times JC deemed necessary.  He was the perfect beginning student, old enough to have a long attention span, young enough to take instantly to the skills, and brimming with natural ability and aptitude.  And his progress was nothing short of amazing.  
  
In the beginning JC had tried to keep their lessons very structured, one in the morning after the first meal, one in the evening in the hour before darkness fell completely.  But Justin pushed for more, practicing constantly, straining his body to perfect the skills, and JC had inevitably become involved, correcting Justin when a stance was not accurate, answering his questions.  The only time Justin didn’t practice seemed to be when he was eating, sleeping, or taking actual instruction.  Or watching JC’s own workout sessions in the middle of the night, which he did with huge dark eyes and a silent intensity that made JC’s skin tingle, made his concentration splinter.  
  
It wasn’t the first time JC had dealt with a student with a crush.  It was fairly common among the mid level classes when you were teaching people only a few years younger than yourself, usually hormonally charged teenagers.  JC was very familiar with the signs: a certain way of staring, blushing upon eye contact, and occasional inappropriate bids for attention during class.  The crushes had never troubled JC too much, since the code of non-fraternization between students and teachers went soul-deep.  It had been ingrained in him in a million ways from the first moment he’d entered the Royal Yards as an anxious boy from far Outside, just as it was ingrained in all students.  There was no opportunity for any sort of relationship between student and teacher: classes were almost always by group, and private instruction was always in public where there was no opportunity for privacy.  Very rarely did a student attempt to do more than stare longingly at his or her instructor.  It simply was not done, and JC had learned quickly that if he remained business-like and ignored the signs of such interest, it always went away.  
  
It was, however, impossible to ignore someone you were locked in a dungeon cell with, and it proved equally impossible to remain business-like and detached.  He and Justin had become friends of a sort, their care for each other’s injuries and illnesses breaking down the walls that would normally exist between Royal and Citizen or Yard Undermaster and student.  Time spent talking about the Yard techniques and philosophy, an overwhelming interest for them both, allowed them to get past the stiffness brought about by their argument, and gradually they became easy in each others’ company.  With their days turning into marathon Yard sessions in an effort to keep the boredom at bay and quench Justin’s thirst for knowledge, JC was reminded of his time in the students’ quarters, when every day was filled with Yard work and people of his own level to learn and play with.    
  
As the months passed, JC found it increasingly difficult to remember that Justin was not another student at his own level, that he was still a child, and his pupil, and that there were lines between them that could not be crossed.  It didn’t help that Justin was growing taller, becoming stronger and more attractive every day despite being too thin and too pale.  It didn’t help when Justin smiled at him or simply stared at him with his giant blue eyes, hanging on every word JC said or movement he made.  It didn’t help that there was no privacy in their cell, that relieving his body’s essential and hormonal needs was something he had to do quickly, furtively, and only when he was certain Justin was deeply asleep.  And it really didn’t help that he saw Justin’s face and body in his mind’s eye as he strained toward his quick and silent release.  
  
There were other things that troubled JC.  Justin was learning at a fantastic rate, and he was just about ready for the intermediate level.  JC would have promoted him already under normal circumstances, but here in their dark dungeon he hesitated.  The next level meant the intermediate pinyons and katas, weapons work, and  more complex offenses for and defenses against attacks.  In normal classes JC would have his students pair up, trading off defense and offense, getting the students accustomed to hitting and being hit.  It would be their first introduction to contact and sparring, a prelude to the more realistic fighting that would come in the advanced classes.    
  
There were a couple problems here.  One was that JC didn’t have another student for Justin to partner with as he learned these techniques; JC would have to do it himself.  That meant grabbing, holding, and trying to subdue Justin as any realistic attacker would.  Justin seemed fine most of the time -- he never mentioned what had happened to him before his imprisonment, and when he was awake, he seemed unaffected by it.  But he had nightmares almost every night, and the few times JC had tried to wake him by touching him, shaking his shoulder, Justin had exploded in terror.  JC worried that this sort of training was going to be very difficult for Justin, and he hoped that their time in the cell together thus far had built enough trust between them so that Justin would not be made uncomfortable by the contact.  
  
Then there were the horrifying thoughts that lurked in the back of JC’s mind, the little voice that pointed out how handsome Justin was, how attractive his voice, how smooth his skin, how warm his body seemed to be, even in the chilly winter months.  The little voice seemed to think that wrapping his arms around Justin and putting his mouth on the silky skin at the base of his throat would be the best thing JC had felt since long before the invasion.  Maybe ever.  
  
For the millionth time JC smashed the little voice into silence and turned his mind back to the issues at hand even as a part of him wondered wearily if he’d be better off simply refusing to teach Justin any more.  Not that that was any sort of an option, not when Justin approached all aspects of the Yard classes with so much determination and enjoyment.  And JC had to admit that he enjoyed it too.  He was proud of Justin’s high learning curve, his natural ability.  He loved to teach, and he enjoyed having someone to work out with, and the Yard work was good for both of them.  In the worst of circumstances, confinement in a dark dungeon, it was necessary for their mental and physical health.  
  
JC sighed, casting a weary eye around their dark, rectangular cell.  As an Undermaster he had a responsibility to teach anyone who asked to be taught, and he was deeply grateful not to be in this cell alone, or with someone he couldn’t tolerate.  Other issues aside, Justin was good company, smart and funny, and teaching him did help pass the time.  It also helped keep JC from dwelling on questions he couldn’t answer and things he couldn’t change, like wondering if his friends and family were still alive.  Or if he and Justin would ever get out of the dungeon, and what would happen to them if one day the guards did come for them, armed with shackles and chains.  What they would do if they were forgotten here in this little-traveled side corridor, and the food stopped coming.  But sometimes, during the darkest hours of the night when the weight of the castle above him seemed to press all the air out of his lungs, when he struggled not to hear the moans and screams from deep in the lower dungeon levels, when he listened to Justin whimper and gasp as he fled from nightmares in his sleep and fought the urge to touch him, comfort him, he wondered how long they could stay sane.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	13. Twelve

Twelve  
  
 _In a wall’d prison, packs and sets of great ones  
That ebb and flow by the moon._  
William Shakespeare, King Lear V  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
“Okay, you’re ready for the next level.”    
  
JC’s tone was quiet, laconic, like this was nothing out of the ordinary.  But these were the words Justin had been waiting to hear for what seemed like months now.  The words he hoped for every day when JC would watch him practice the beginner’s pinyons and forms and stances, when he’d drill on defenses to non existent punches, kicks, direct weapons attacks and hope they were more than the “okay, that’s pretty good, that’s enough for now,” which was the most he could usually drag from JC.  The next level meant that he was finally past beginners, that he was finally catching up to where most people his age already were.  He allowed himself about five seconds of sheer exultation, letting the joy and the glow of accomplishment flow through him before schooling his face back into serious lines, already thinking of how much he had to learn, and in the back of his mind wondering how quickly and well he could learn it.  
  
“Okay, I’m ready,” he said, keeping his voice just as quiet as JC’s was.  But when Justin shook the tension out of his shoulders and turned around to face JC he saw that he was smiling at him, his stance relaxed, his blue-green eyes alight with humor, with pride.  
  
“That’s it?” JC questioned lightly, and his smile widened into a grin.  “Justin, take a minute and be happy.  Pat yourself on the back.  You should be so proud, because I’ve never seen a student master the basics so quickly.”  
  
JC nodded at him, and Justin hesitated only a moment before letting his own grin spread over his face.  If they hadn’t been where they were he would’ve whooped at the top of his lungs, but they needed to be quiet, always they needed to be quiet, and the struggle to repress the joy inside of him made him tremble.  JC started to laugh a little as Justin bounced in place, jumping higher and higher as his grin spread, and when Justin launched himself at him he caught him reflexively with a surprised “oomph.”  
  
Justin wrapped his arms about JC and squeezed hard, feeling JC go absolutely still and stiff in the circle of his arms.  “Thank you,” he murmured into JC’s shoulder, his voice muffled.  “I just, I’ve always wanted to learn _so bad_ , and it’s just . . .” he trailed off, his joy tangling with the ever present fear and despair and guilt, and he wondered for a horrified moment if he was going to cry.  JC’s hands were patting him awkwardly on the back, and Justin gulped hard.  “JC, I just.  Uhm.  Thank you.”  He unwrapped his arms and moved away from JC without looking at his face, flushed from the memory of how solid JC had felt in his arms, how warm his hands had been on Justin’s back.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It didn’t mean anything, JC told himself shakily.  Justin was pleased with his accomplishment, as he well should be.  He was exuberant, and grateful to JC for teaching him an art he’d wanted to learn, and had been prevented from learning, for as long as he could remember.  He was a hormonally charged teenager.  He was just a child, a boy whose family had been murdered, a boy who was probably desperate for human contact.    
  
It was nothing personal, he told himself sternly.  Justin didn’t know that such touches, hugs, between teachers and students were prohibited and whose fault was that?  JC was probably the only teacher Justin could remember.    
  
He tortured himself for a while longer, keeping his eyes carefully averted as he waited for Justin to stretch and limber up.  He was a terrible teacher.  He’d neglected to inform Justin on an important societal taboo, and it was his own fault.  He ruthlessly squashed the warm feelings he had felt from seeing Justin’s joy, his own pride in Justin’s accomplishment, his pleasure that Justin had initiated the hug, his hope that perhaps the nightmare of what had happened to Justin the day of the invasion was fading.  This was all good, but the fact of the matter remained that Justin had touched him in a manner inappropriate between teacher and student.  If they’d been in the Yard they would’ve both been sternly reprimanded, and JC would’ve had a mark on his teaching record.    
  
Justin hadn’t known what he’d done, he’d been carried away, it didn’t have anything to do with JC.  The hug, the brief squeeze, Justin’s warm body wrapped around him, the strength in his long arms, his words breathed warmly into JC’s shoulder; none of it meant anything.    
  
JC took a deep breath, and then another, exhaling slowly and smoothly from deep in his diaphragm, forcing his swirling thoughts to quiet.  When he opened his eyes, once again calm and focused, it was to Justin’s pretty face, watching him alertly.  JC opened his mouth to explain to Justin about the student-teacher code of non-fraternization, the reasons for it, the trust issues it evoked, but then Justin smiled at him.  His face was open, trusting, and JC just couldn’t do it.  It had been months, maybe longer before Justin had stopped flinching at the most casual of contact, and JC didn’t have it in him to dim the light coming from Justin’s eyes now.  He smiled back at him, instead.  
  
“You ready to get to work?” he asked quietly, and Justin nodded, eager.  “Let’s get to it then,” he said, and moved forward until he was standing in front of him.  “Up until now you’ve been drilling on the basic movements, the blocks and punches you would use in defense of various types of hand to hand attacks.  You have those down, so now it’s time to apply them.”    
  
JC paused, and Justin nodded again, his brow creased in concentration.  JC took another deep breath.  
  
“Okay.  I’m going to come up behind you and try to overpower you, like someone would if they wanted to rob you, or hurt you, or kill you.  What I want you to do is think about what you’ve learned, and try to pick the fastest and best defense for the attack.”  He watched Justin’s expression carefully.  A slight shadow passed over his face, darkening his features briefly as his mouth tightened.  But then he blinked, and the eyes he raised to JC had nothing but trust in them.  Trust and anticipation.  
  
“Okay,” JC said, and he didn’t try to squelch the feeling of warmth inside.  “Let’s try this.  We’ll go slow.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	14. Thirteen

Thirteen  
 _  
Slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night . . ._  
Walter De La Mare, “Silver”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The tall gray wall blocked his view of the ocean and the sunrise that he could tell was happening by the gradually lightening sky.  The wall was so high now, its dark stone a damp and bleak counterpoint to the delicate pinks the sky directly overhead offered.  Out there daylight had arrived.  Here in the lower steppe the wall ensured that daylight was never more than a few hours long.  
  
 _I hate you_ , Chris said silently to the wall.  _I hate you and I hate the bastards who built you to keep us all in the dark._  
  
But it was getting lighter by the moment and he stepped up his pace, making sure to keep his head down and his expression relaxed as he passed the last official military guard post and eased down the dark alleys along the water front, like any other fisherman returning home after a long night on the boat.  The smell of the ocean was strongest here: he could faintly hear the cries of gulls and the sounds of the last of the fishing fleet returning to dock, the shouts from the skinning sheds as they prepared the catch for the market.  Already it was steamy hot, his shirt sticking to him and stinking of fish oil as he made his way through the filth of the lower steppe.  
  
It had been a good haul for the vessel he worked on, and there had been hope that the large catch would be enough to give each man something extra.  It was what every man prayed to the gods for, enough money to be able to bribe one of the gate guards, to take his family and what he could carry on his back and disappear in the dead of night, out of the City walls forever.  But the palace workers had been waiting when Chris’s boat had docked, and had immediately taken the best, biggest, freshest of the catch for the palace, the Richardson brothers, their barracks.  Chris’s mouth twisted bitterly.  There was nothing extra left for the men who’d been up all night, working.  Again.  
  
He approached what had once been his family’s home, in what used to be a respectable part of town, back when even the lower steppe had been safe to walk unescorted.  The buildings were made of a light gray and bronze stone, quarried from far outside the City’s walls and transported in wagons at a cost that would be impossible now, but that everyone could have afforded before the Richardson family came.  When Chris was young the stone of every building had been kept clean, scoured of the greenery that grew everywhere in the humid climate, and the thatch over the timbered roofs had been scraped away and changed every spring.  To Chris, the smell of freshly cut thatch to this day meant lazy warm days and cool ocean water and no school and Yard practice only in the early mornings, when it was cool.    
  
He slowed his pace slightly, his eyes somber on the house.  It had been their first real home when they arrived in this City, making the long slow trip by foot and occasionally by wagon from a place far up the coast that Chris could barely remember.  Chris had been hardly more than a boy and his mother had another little girl just approaching school age.  They’d come, he remembered his mother telling him, because she’d heard the Timberlakes were kind to the displaced, that their City offered work, and schools, and open Yards, and that she’d hoped they would finally be able to settle down.  Chris had been skeptical.  Nothing he’d experienced thus far in his short life led him to expect any such kindnesses without a serious price to pay.  
  
But they had been welcomed at the gate with iced drinks and food and even a doctor to look at his younger sister, ill with trail fever.  They’d been offered lodging, his mother a job.  He would never forget the incredulous joy on his mother’s face when she’d seen the little house, or forget his own excitement when he’d seen the carefully tended neighborhood Yard, deep in the alleyways behind it.  His baby sister had been thrilled to finally go to a real school; Chris had cared only about the Yard.   
  
It had been unbelievable to him that even in this part of the lower steppe, a part that had been the poorest and most run down even under the Timberlake’s rule, every neighborhood had had a Yard.  Some of Chris’s happiest childhood memories stemmed from this tiny house and the little Yard secluded deep within the hedges and tiny twisting alleys far beyond it.  He’d had his first lessons there, made lasting friends with others his own age for the first time.  They were gone now, all of them dead except for him and Joey.  
  
The Richardsons didn’t allow citizens access to the Yards, but Chris and Joey didn’t let that stop them.  It had taken them almost a week of quiet work in the pre-dawn gloom to pull the weeds from the hard packed dirt, to clean the vines off the stone half-wall, to repair the two gates.  They had done it just to have something to do at first, when Chris had finally arrived home two months after the Richardson takeover, bribing a guard with all the money he had to be allowed into the gates without papers.  It had been another few months before the option of signing oath papers had been presented, when Joey had had the choice of staring at the empty walls of his house and trying not to remember the sound of his baby daughter’s early morning giggles as Kelly sang good morning to her, or going crazy from the silence.  Cleaning the Yard had been Chris’s idea.  He’d been gone for over a year, but he’d known Joey for a very long time.  
  
And their toil had not been in vain.  The work had been back breaking, but they were both Yard men, and the inactivity was making them crazy.  The Yard in Joey’s neighborhood was very secluded.  Although it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that some of his troops could stumble upon it, or be led to it for a price, the Yard was safely hidden from all but those familiar with this neighborhood.  
  
The second morning Chris and Joey crept quietly to the Yard to pull weeds and repair walls they were joined by one thin, grim man, who’d only murmured curtly that he’d heard them working the previous morning.  He had a small collection of tools and had already started on the weeds in the north corner when they arrived.  Chris had started to thank him and he’d squinted hard at Chris, daring him to say it.  “I guess it’s not just your Yard,” he’d muttered, and Joey had raised his eyebrows and smiled as Chris had nodded.  By the end of the week there had been ten people there, all bringing tools and working silently in the pre-dawn gloom, and at the end of the third week the Yard had looked neater and cleaner than any building in the deep lower steppe.  Neighborhood people had kept coming when the Yard was spotless and Chris and Joey started their practices, often asking to join in, sometimes showing some skill or education, all of them, quietly, wanting to know more.  Nobody talked about why.  
  
Chris looked at his mother’s old house, its thatch roof almost three years old now, mossy green growth showing in the seams between the stone blocks of the walls, cracks in the front windows that his mother had always kept so clean and sparkling.  The sun never shined on it now; it was too near the walls that Richardson had ordered heightened once it became clear that people were sneaking over them and fleeing in the night.  Chris had not been there the day of the invasion, when his sister had been dragged screaming from the house and carried up the hill to the troop brothel while his mother fought and cried, had not been there when his mother’s carefully collected treasures had been flung into the street the next day as the troops took occupation of the lower steppe.  Now the little house sat, dirty and neglected and sad, always in the shadow of the wall, used sometimes as a quartering barracks for Richardsons’ guards in the lower steppe, mostly sitting empty.  It didn’t look like a family had ever lived there, laughed there, grown up and lived their lives there.  As he looked at it, ever-present black rage clawed at Chris.  He thought of his mother, who had never been the same since Taylor's disappearance and who now spent the bulk of her days hiding, and averted his eyes until he was safely past.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	15. Fourteen

Fourteen  
  
 _The moving moon went up the sky,  
And nowhere did abide_  
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Ancient Mariner, pt. IV  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Justin pivoted and struck out, and it was a good, solid hit squarely into JC’s short ribs.  He hadn’t been concerned even when JC fell to the stone flooring of the cell, because JC was so finely trained that he could hit the ground lightly, like a pile of feathers, and he never got hurt.  
  
“Gotcha,” Justin gasped, shaking his head sharply to twitch the sweat out of his eyes.  He couldn’t help but feel pleased; he very rarely landed a solid hit to JC, who was far too fast for him.  He waited for him to get up, for the grin that made JC’s eyes crinkle into slanting blue, for him to smack Justin on the arm and good naturedly tease him about hurting his teacher.  It had been a really good hit.  
  
But JC didn’t get up.  He lay on the smooth stone floor, facing away from Justin, half on his side and half on his stomach, his legs at an awkward angle.  
  
“Hey,” Justin said, and the thought that JC had hit his head and was really hurt exploded on him in a swirling kaleidoscope of panic.  He dived across the cell and threw himself to his knees beside JC’s body, reaching out to touch his shoulder, shaking him.  
  
“JC.  Oh my god, JC,” and he was babbling but JC wasn’t moving, not _at all_ , didn’t even seem to be breathing, and Justin didn’t see any blood but he was afraid to roll him over, terrified of what he would find.  His brain darted in a hundred directions: grab a blanket, get the water bucket, what could he use for bandages, would a guard or a drudge come if he started screaming at the top of his lungs, would it be a good thing or a bad thing, maybe he’s okay, maybe he’s just stunned, oh god, JC . . .  
  
Justin placed his hand on JC’s shoulder and gingerly pulled him toward him, rolling him fully onto his back.  Then the world exploded in a dizzying whirlwind of blows and kicks and motion too fast for his stunned senses to comprehend.  When the room settled Justin found himself on his back, and JC’s knee was in his groin, and his hands were wrapped firmly around Justin’s neck.  He gaped in shock and JC, completely unhurt, grinned cheerfully down at him.  
  
“I hope that’s the last time you let yourself get so close to an enemy who just might be playing possum,” JC said conversationally, and Justin choked on a confusing mixture of surprise, outrage, admiration and complete humiliation.  JC chuckled as he loosened his hands from Justin’s throat and started to sit up, and Justin seethed.    
  
A noise from far down the corridor had JC’s eyes flicking to the barred door at the end of the cell, and Justin saw his chance.  Without stopping to think he scissored his legs, catching JC’s free leg and knocking him off balance.  JC blocked his feinted jab reflexively, but he missed Justin’s grab around the solar plexus, and Justin used JC’s own sideways momentum to bring him down to the floor.  He scrambled to solidify his hold, because JC had a way of turning into a noodle and slithering out of whatever hold Justin knew to use on him.  But JC wasn’t getting away this time, and unfortunately it wasn’t because Justin had him properly subdued.  It was because JC seemed to be laughing too hard to be effective.    
  
JC twisted, getting one arm underneath Justin’s, and now he was sliding his long fingered hand up Justin’s rib cage, and how did JC know that Justin was ticklish there?  Justin convulsed helplessly, and now they were both laughing between punches and kicks, rolling fast across the stone floor.  Neither of them seemed to be able to get the upper hand, and Justin’s stomach was cramping up from exertion and laughter, and when they slammed to a halt against the far wall Justin couldn’t breathe in anything other than an odd sort of wheeze and JC was gasping with laughter.    
  
They collapsed there, in an odd and exhausted tangle of limbs in the crease of stone where the wall met the floor.  Justin’s blood sizzled and his heart thudded in his ears as he looked down at JC, who was almost purple as he tried to catch his breath, whose entire face was lit up with laughter.  Before he even knew what he was doing he’d leaned forward and covered JC’s soft lips with his own.  
  
JC sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and went absolutely still but he didn’t pull away, and Justin took all his courage, all his pent up wants and needs and unacknowledged hopes in hand and shifted so that he was holding JC loosely instead of pinning him down.  His lips kept a steady pressure, sliding slowly across JC’s but not asking for anything more.  JC’s warm mouth stayed soft under Justin’s lips but he didn’t respond, and when Justin leaned back it took everything he had to open his eyes and look into JC’s.  
  
JC looked dazed, like he’d hit his head or had just woken up.  His mouth was moist and red and his lips were half parted, and Justin felt a clutch of emotion deep in his stomach that made him gasp.  And this time when Justin tentatively leaned in JC met him half way.  
  
It quickly became clear who’d had more experience at this.  JC’s warm hands moved surely up Justin’s arms to cup his jaw, his thumbs stroked at his cheeks and his lips moved persuasively until Justin gasped and opened his mouth, moaning faintly when JC’s tongue slid slickly against his own.  His spine tingled and his ears roared, and his hands were wrapped tightly in the fabric of JC’s shirt, his palms craving the warmth of the skin through the thin cotton.  JC’s mouth made him dizzy, his throat was closing up and now JC’s arms were around him, pulling him closer to his body until they wrapped completely around Justin’s torso and they were breathing into each other’s mouths.  Justin was achingly hard, his groin throbbing demands, and when he shifted a bit and JC’s arms moved lower, around his waist, he felt JC was too.  
  
For a long moment he froze, his breath tangling hard in his throat as his body remembered things he’d determinedly buried, and it was enough to break the odd spell.  JC nibbled at Justin’s lower lip as he relaxed his hold and leaned away, like he couldn’t help himself, and his hands went still.  Except for their harsh breaths there was silence and Justin rested his forehead on JC’s shoulder as JC held him loosely, his hands stroking a soothing rhythm down Justin’s back.  
  
In the silence Justin felt the humiliation start to rise and threaten to overwhelm him.  What had he just done?  JC was his instructor.  He knew better than this.  JC had been very clear about the lines that existed between teacher and student, what they were, why they existed, and why they had to be respected.  And it was more than that.  JC was his friend, more than likely the only friend he had in the whole world right now.  And he was a normal, healthy human being, of course he wasn’t immune to the clumsy passion Justin had just exploded on him, out of the blue.  He felt his face start to burn, and started to look for a way to fumble an apology.  
  
“Don’t even think about it,” JC said, and he sounded so tired, so completely weary that Justin closed his eyes and winced.  “It wasn’t your fault.  It wasn’t in any way your fault.”  
  
“JC,” he started miserably, and he was unable to lift his burning face from the comfort of JC’s shoulder.  “JC, I’m so sorry.”  
  
JC’s hands were warm and steady on his back and he hugged him briefly before setting Justin away from him and leaning back against the wall.  “Justin.  Just, don’t, okay?  I said it wasn’t your fault.”  He sighed, leaning his head back and even in the depths of his misery Justin admired the line of his long, elegant neck, the way his eyelashes looked against his pale skin.  “It’s just,” JC made a tired and futile gesture that seemed to indicate their surroundings.  “I guess it was bound to happen.  We’ve been locked up together for so long and you’re so young . . .”  He trailed off, his eyes closing as he heaved a sigh, and Justin sat up, his misery momentarily forgotten.  
  
“It’s not just, uhm, convenience,” he said quietly, and felt his face burn as JC shifted to look at him.  “I mean, you’re my instructor, and I know it’s wrong, that if we were in the Yard there would be trouble.”  He took a deep breath and tried to calm his pounding heart.  “It’s just, I mean, for me it’s not just because you’re the only person here, you know?  I mean, I always thought you were, you know, something special, way back before . . .”  
  
“When you’d watch, at the royal Yards,” JC prompted quietly, and Justin nodded.  
  
“Back then.  And now, I dunno, mostly I just wish that we were out of here, that we were strangers,” and now he was starting to talk too fast, his words stumbling over each other.  “Equals, like someone else had been my teacher and we were at the same level, or we were living somewhere else, like in the north where they say there are no walls and people are good to each other.  I wish we could meet there for the first time, and just talk, and maybe go out to dinner, and I wouldn’t be anybody except someone you wanted to . . . see again.”  He trailed off miserably, his face beet red, and when JC picked up his hand and squeezed it he thought he’d rather just die than have JC pity him.  
  
“Justin.”  JC’s voice was so quiet, and he loved the smooth timber of it, the tone and the slight raspiness when he was emotional about something.  “Justin, I wish those things too.  I do.”  
  
Justin raised his eyes and was rewarded with JC’s sad and rueful smile.    
  
“If things were different,” JC started, and then he sighed, rubbing his eyes.  “But they’re not.”  And his voice was firm as he moved Justin gently away from him and got to his feet.  
  
“Things,” Justin murmured, and JC nodded.  
  
“Things,” he said firmly.  “If you weren’t so much younger than me.  If what had happened to you . . .” he broke off, guiltily as Justin sucked in a breath and turned away.  “I mean, you know.”  JC’s voice was soft with apology, and Justin nodded, stiffly.  JC continued.  
  
“But those aren’t even the biggest things.  The fact of the matter is that I’m your teacher, and you are a student.  And there’s no way, nowhere, where that’s okay.  As long as you’re taking instruction, this,” and he waved his hand back and forth, indicating the space between he and Justin, “this, can’t be okay.  It just can’t.”  
  
Justin felt his heart squeeze tightly as he battled with conflicting feelings.  The student and the friend felt guilt, the royal heir felt outrage and resentment, and the young man who had just admitted to himself that he might feel more than simple friendship felt humiliation and despair.  But it was the politician that he’d once been raised to be who looked calmly at the situation, and stood up to face JC, his face still.  
  
“So, you’re an Undermaster, JC.  Right?”  
  
“You know I am, Justin, and that’s why -“  
  
Justin forged ahead.  “And, you can promote me.  I mean, you promoted me to intermediate and to advanced and you can promote me all the way up to the level that you are at, right?”  JC nodded, his eyes intent on Justin’s face.  Justin continued.  “But you can’t be promoted yourself until you’re tested.  Am I right?  By the Masters, they have to test and promote you before you can be called a Master.  Am I right?”  
  
JC nodded again, and in his eyes there was a light, a glimmer that said he knew where Justin was taking this.  For the second time Justin gathered up his courage, and he met JC’s eyes steadily.  
  
“So, one of these days I’m going to catch up to you.  I mean, that’s my goal, I want to learn every single thing you can teach me, that’s what I’ve always wanted.  But when I do, we won’t be teacher and student anymore.  Will we?”  
  
JC looked at him for a long quiet moment, taking in the upright posture, the serious blue eyes, the hands that were locked into hard knots of tension at his sides.  “No, we won’t be teacher and student any more, not then,” he repeated, and his voice was so gentle.  
  
“So,” Justin said, hating the way his voice shook, the way it revealed all the tension and the swimming relief and the hope that was spiraling dizzily through him.  “So, I want to learn.  And I think you know that I’m willing to work hard.  And, you know, I’ll wait.”  He held his breath as he waited for JC’s response, and he didn’t have to wait long.  
  
“Well.  Uhm, okay.”  JC was smiling at him, his eyes warm with approval and more.  “Let’s get to work, then.”  He stretched out his hand, and Justin took it and held on tight.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	16. Fifteen

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Fifteen  
 _  
Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon._  
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer-Night’s Dream  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Joey’s work in the royal palace had seemed at first an ideal way to get information, to catch glimpses of the inner workings of the Richardsons and their barbaric regime.  When he’d signed his oath papers and been tagged for palace drudge work he’d been fiercely glad, hopeful always that he would find some clue as to what had happened to Kelly.  
  
But mostly the work was in the kitchens, back-breaking labor that involved hauling heavy cauldrons of boiling liquids, stocking the huge sacks of bulk supplies, and dragging the stinking containers of garbage to the offal heaps behind the dungeons.  It was filthy and exhausting labor, and offered no opportunities to gather information more important than what Kevin Richardson wanted to eat that day, and what his garbage looked like when the meal was over.  There were many times when he envied Chris his job in the fishing fleet, where at least he had access to clean, fresh air.  
  
What kept him going were the few times he was ordered to go down to the dungeons, when one of the usual drudges was sick, or dead, or busy elsewhere.  He took every opportunity to comb through the labyrinthian maze of cells and storage rooms that served as the Richardsons’ dungeons, because he’d searched high and low throughout the City in the months after the invasion, and had found no sign of Kelly and his daughter.  He felt certain that they were still alive, was unable to tolerate any other possibility, and the dungeons were the only logical place where they could have remained so well hidden.   His heart squeezed at the possibility of Kelly and Briahna trapped in one of those dark, filthy cells, but these forays, few and far between, to the dungeons as part of the team of drudges offered his best chance of finding them.  So when the head cook motioned him over, Joey thought another trip to the dungeons was coming, and he carefully hid his elation beneath the bland, slightly stupid expression he was always careful to wear when he worked anywhere near the palace.  
  
It wasn’t to the dungeons this time, though.  He was pointed to a large covered tray, big enough to need two strong men to carry it, and kicked hard in the back of the leg when he hesitated.  The cook snarled at him to get to work, and Joey showed no expression as he mentally drew his short sword and carefully sliced the cook’s throat, slowly, listening to his screams gurgle into silence.  One day, he promised himself.  One day soon.  
  
The tray was meant for the royal brothel, high in the palace on the upper levels, what had once been part of the Timberlakes’ private residence wing.  Joey had never been up there, and as he struggled up the stairs with a tray that obviously carried meals for at least a dozen people, he wondered if this might bring him a step closer to finding out information that would help set his world right.  An opportunity, perhaps.  
  
A guard directed him down the hall, smirking unkindly as Joey sweated and strained to lift the awkward tray without dropping it.  The hallway was long, and other than the movement of the guard there was no activity, no noise.  Two guards posted at a large double doorway opened the door for him as he approached, but didn’t offer to assist with his burden, and he was so consumed with not dropping the tray that he didn’t even look at his surroundings until he had set it safely on the large table.  
  
The royal brothel was decorated in dark, luxurious fabrics.  The scent of incense hung thickly in the air, and the filtering drapes gave the room a deep erotic red glow.  There were a dozen beautiful, half naked women in the room, and he scanned them all quickly as they unfurled themselves from various items of furniture and drifted toward the tray.  Not one of them looked at him, in his dirty and wrinkled drudge clothing.  None of them even looked at each other.  And none of them were Kelly.  
  
The brothel master was near the doorway, arguing with the guards.  He had one large hand wrapped around the upper arm of a petite blonde woman who stood quietly beside him.  Her white gown draped seductively around her small form, snug in some places, draped to reveal expanses of flawless skin in others.  She took no interest in Joey, the master, the guards or any of the other women in the room.  Joey busied himself opening the tray, placing covered silver plates on the table as he strained to hear the argument.  
  
The brothel master wanted the guards to escort the woman somewhere, and there was a whispered discussion going on between them.  One guard didn’t want to go because he was almost off shift.  The other was new, and didn’t know the way to the lower dungeons.  The brothel master didn’t want to leave his own dinner, and the blonde woman simply looked off into space, effectively distancing herself from the entire conversation.  
  
Joey saw his chance.  It was risky, but he drew attention to himself by clattering the now empty tray loudly on the table as he picked it up, the sound sharp and staccato in the eerily silent room.  It worked: the brothel master looked sharply at him, taking in Joey’s drudge uniform with a single glance.  
  
“You,” he commanded, and Joey waited until his downcast eyes saw the master’s finger as it pointed at his chest.  “You, drudge,” he said again, and Joey raised his eyes slowly, making his expression as dull and lifeless at possible.  “Do you know the way to the dungeons?”  
  
Joey counted to four, blinking heavily before nodding, slowly.  The brothel master nodded, satisfied.  “You,” he indicated the new guard, “escort her to AJ in the lower dungeons.  The drudge,” he hooked a derisive finger in Joey’s direction, “will show you the way.”  Problem solved, his attitude suggested, and he turned his attention to his food as he dismissed the woman from his thoughts.  
  
Joey exited the room, cautiously pleased to have an opportunity to examine a part of the dungeons he’d not yet seen.  AJ was one of the younger brothers, rarely seen outside of the deep lower dungeons that were his chosen domain, but his name was mentioned often in the City.  AJ didn’t join Nick and Howie in their hell-raising escapades of destruction through the City, drinking and raping and killing.  AJ, it was said, preferred to have his entertainments delivered to him.  
  
They were making their way through the main level of the palace, heading down the long corridor that would lead to the upper level of the dungeon entrance when Joey realized that the blonde woman had drawn even with him, her shorter legs stretching long to keep up with his stride.  The guard was lagging a couple of steps behind, distracted by the view of the ocean out the wide windows, and Joey carefully looked at her out of the corner of his left eye.  
  
She was staring at him with intent blue eyes, all signs of disinterest gone.  He was momentarily distracted by the plunging, draped neckline of her white dress, the exposed expanse of creamy ivory skin, but then he looked again at her face and the shock made him blink.  
  
“Joey?” she whispered, unsure, and he nodded, blinking as recognition clicking hard into place.  He knew her, he had known her slightly from the Yards many years ago.  She was a few years younger than he, just another Yard rat like himself, and he would have never recognized that girl under this glossy facade.  She gulped and looked like she would say something more, but the guard had taken a few jogging steps and was right behind them again.  As Joey watched she jerked her eyes forward and took a deep breath before her face settled back into its cold, uncaring remoteness.  
  
He was shaken as he led the way down the steps to the lower dungeons, seeing only the occasional flash of her white dress in the corner of his eye as they wound lower and lower, and the air became danker, the stench stronger.  He heard her cough once, nervously, as they passed the main level and proceeded down the dark, low corridor where AJ had set up his lair.  
  
The first thing Joey saw once AJ’s guard waved them through the doorway was a large stone table, fitted with thick metal cuffs at each corner.  The stone gleamed with hard scrubbing, but the grout between the stones was dark, stained.  There were a variety of implements hanging neatly on hooks from the wall, tools of wood that gleamed dully in the torchlight, tools of steel that shone with a sinister glow, chains, whips, hooks, barbed straps, long, sharp rods and heavy blunt clubs.  Joey turned his head away, swallowing hard, and he heard the woman suck in a long, shuddering breath.  
  
The guards were speaking to each other when AJ emerged from a doorway covered with a thick tapestry.  He was a short, slight man, sharp featured and narrow eyed.  He ignored all four of them, stepping to a basket near the wall and selecting a long, black coil of sliver-thin rope which he slid slowly through his hands.  His small fingers flexed and curled around it, and Joey saw that he had a small, curved blade hidden in his hand, flicking it expertly between his fingers as he crossed the room and stood in front of the blonde woman.  
  
He barely looked at her, just jerked his head toward the opening he’d emerged from.  She didn’t look at Joey as she passed, but he could feel her terror like a palpable wave, see it in the stiffness of her posture, the flicker of her eyes as she took in the instruments lining the walls.  Joey couldn’t remember her name but he remembered her, the way she’d bound her blonde hair neatly when she worked with weapons in one of the intermediate Yards, the sound of her laughter as she’d taken down one of her Yard mates.  It suddenly became of paramount importance that he remember her name.  He groped for it desperately as she disappeared from view, but it wouldn’t come and Joey felt a huge, overwhelming rage and a helplessness that made him tremble.  His vision turned red, pulsing at the outer edges, and his fingers itched for AJ’s knife.  
  
AJ dismissed them all with a jerk of his head before he turned to follow her, and his guard motioned them toward the doorway.  There was a delay as he indicated a large bucket of foul slop and a pile of filthy clothing, pushing Joey toward them.  His stomach clenched as he picked up the linens and the bucket, gagging at the smell.  The cloth was stiff with dried blood and other viscous substances.  
  
They hadn’t even gotten to the stairs leading up to the main dungeon level when Joey heard the first choked scream.  
  
Joey tried, as he always did whenever he was allowed to walk though the dungeon level, to look into the cells he passed, to search for a familiar face, hear a familiar voice.  But everyone in the dungeon had drawn back deeply into the shadows, chased from the flickering torchlight by the sounds coming from the suite at the end of the corridor.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	17. Sixteen

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Sixteen  
  
 _And a hush with the setting moon_  
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Maud”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Justin completed the final form and stopped, sweating and breathing hard but perfectly balanced on legs that shook from exertion.  
  
JC watched from his position against the far wall, face serious and set.  He’d been sitting there for hours, speaking only to give quiet commands, to name katas and pinyons and drills for Justin to perform.  Twice he’d gotten up to be a target as Justin had demonstrated various attack and defense techniques, and in the second hour he’d risen and positioned himself as a sparring partner, pushing Justin harder and farther than he’d ever pushed him.  Then he’d returned to his seat against the far wall, quietly naming more drills, having Justin repeat the advanced pinyons until he could see exhaustion in the set of his arms, in the way his legs trembled in his stances.  Then he’d made Justin fight him again, forcing him to defend himself as JC had thrown everything he had at him.  Justin had been wheezing for air, sweat dripping off his face when JC had called a halt and returned to his seat against the far wall and resumed his quiet commands.  
  
It wasn’t quite like the Undermaster test JC had gone through several years ago.  They had no weapons, so Justin couldn’t demonstrate proficiency or accuracy although he knew all the stances and drills for them.  JC’s test had involved defenses against multiple attackers, but that was impossible here as well.  And there was only JC to judge, not the usual panel of five masters and three Undermasters.  There was no question that Justin was ready to be tested, but JC had held off, delayed for reasons that were complex, and perhaps dishonorable.  Or perhaps too honorable.  He wasn’t immune to the changes between him and Justin, the sense of waiting that they both perceived yet didn’t speak about.  
  
But Justin had come to JC that morning and formally requested testing, and JC knew he couldn’t delay it any longer.  And Justin had done his very, very best.  JC’s heart twisted at Justin’s downcast eyes, the sweat dripping down his face and body.  Justin wanted this so badly, and JC could do nothing but tell him the truth.  
  
“Okay, you’re done.  Get some water,” he suggested quietly.  Justin heaved a quick breath, relaxing his stance and rolling his head on his shoulders before moving to comply.  He drank thirstily from the water bucket they kept near the cell door, and when he turned around JC smiled at him, motioning him to come and sit beside him.  Justin waited, his face still flushed, and JC studied him quietly.  
  
Justin had grown in the years they’d been in the dungeon, the regular Yard workouts and added height turning him into a long and lean version of the boy that had been dumped, bloody and unconscious, at JC’s feet.  Learning the various arts of the Yard had given him focus, and he’d worked harder than JC had ever seen someone work to learn it all, soaking in everything JC taught and demonstrated to him like a sponge.  And he was thinker, sometimes modifying traditional moves to make them more efficient for his tall frame, inventing defenses to compensate for JC’s quickness and experience.  He would’ve been a magnificent addition to the royal Yards, and JC had a moment of bitter regret that he had been the only one to witness Justin’s skill.  
  
“Well, you know that wasn’t anything like a normal Undermaster test,” he started out, and held up a hand when Justin drew in a quick breath, ready to protest.  
  
“This really isn’t the time you want to interrupt me,” he said mildly, and Justin subsided, instantly.  “Okay, this isn’t a normal test, because we don’t have other partners for you to spar, and weapons for you to use.  And really, the way the art is taught, or was taught, in the royal Yards, this wouldn’t be a proper test without them.  I mean, you understand that technically I’m not even qualified to test you alone.  Right?”  He waited for Justin’s reluctant nod before he continued.  
  
“But, with all that said, I have to tell you that you did everything that I asked you to do, and you did it correctly.  And even when you got tired, you didn’t lose your form, you didn’t panic, and you thought on your feet, and really, that’s the important thing.  That’s why the tests are the way they are, because as pretty as it can be, and as mental as it can be, the bottom line is that the Yard is about fighting and defense, and it needs to be a part of your very being.”  He waited, studying Justin’s face.  “Do you understand that?”  
  
Justin nodded slowly, his face serious.  
  
“Okay then.”  JC took a deep breath.  “I can’t formally give you the rank, but I will say that with the exception of the weapon and multi-attacker portions, you now know everything that I know.  And you do it as correctly as I know how to teach it, and some things you do better than I.”  He let himself smile, watching as Justin swallowed, hard.  “I can’t formally give you the rank, Justin, but I can tell you, that I have nothing more to teach you.  Except for actual experience and time in the Yard, you and I are on the same skill level.”  
  
Justin raised his eyes to his, and the smile started in the depths of his eyes, brimming there before spilling onto his face and stretching his mouth into a huge, beaming grin.  JC felt the same grin on his own face, and he got to his feet and held out a hand for Justin’s, pulling him to his feet to stand in front of him.  He clasped his right fist in his open left hand and for the first time bowed to Justin as he would to any Undermaster of his own rank.  Justin returned it, shakily, and when they were both standing again JC smiled.  
  
“Your parents, they would be really proud of you,” JC said quietly, and when Justin’s face crumbled he moved without thinking to comfort him, wrapping his arms around Justin’s body, feeling him lean trustingly into him.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Justin had needed the bathing water badly after his test, but he’d considerately left almost half of it for JC and turned his back politely while JC bathed, something they’d both become accustomed to doing.  When he’d finished he saw that Justin had busied himself placing their blankets under the high corner window, folding them carefully across from each other like cushions.  He’d placed the meal pails between them, and had even folded the rags into something resembling napkins.  JC smiled a little as he sat down.  It was so different from their usual casual meals, in which they leaned against the far wall and passed the pail back and forth between them.  
  
Justin sat down on the blanket in front of him, and JC saw that he’d changed into the cleaner clothing he’d carefully set aside the previous morning when it had been dropped off by the drudges.  Justin’s face was a little flushed as he dipped the tin cup into the water pail and held it up, like he was proposing a toast.  
  
JC met his eyes with a little bit of confusion as Justin cleared his throat.  “To Joshua Chasez,” he started, smiling a little.  “The best Yard teacher in the whole world.  Thank you for teaching me, and, you know, for everything.”  He raised the cup to his mouth and took a healthy sip, handing it across for JC to do the same.  
  
JC held the cup aloft without drinking.  “To Justin Timberlake,” he said grandly, and now he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.  “The most hard-working and naturally talented student I’ve ever seen,” he added with a flourish, taking a sip and watching with pleasure as Justin blushed over his ear to ear grin.  
  
It was a shame, JC thought as Justin, still smiling, started eating his meager meal.  If this had been before the invasion there would’ve been a huge celebration, with the entire Yard and the new Undermaster’s whole family and any friends he wanted to invite, a gigantic meal, and ale, and music, and dancing.  Instead there was this small bucket of some sort of nameless gruel, four small hard biscuits and a pail of relatively clean water.  And Justin, who was beaming at him like he wasn’t the only friend he had left in the world.  
  
“If things were normal,” JC said on impulse, “if it was before, I would make certain that you had a proper celebration.  A giant party, if you wanted, with everyone you cared about there to celebrate with you.  All the ale you could drink, and music and . . .” he trailed off.  He and Justin had made a rule at the very beginning of their time in this dungeon that they wouldn’t ever talk about food.  “Um.  Music, and dancing, and strippers even.”  He laughed a little at Justin’s raised eyebrows.  “You know, just, everything you wanted.”  
  
Justin’s smile dimmed and his eyes flickered as a series of groans culminated in a long scream that echoed faintly down the dark corridor.  They both froze, listening as the hideous sound trailed away.  
  
“Block it out,” JC whispered, and Justin nodded, turning his back to the cell door.  He breathed long and deep, and JC breathed with him, stifling the anxiety.  “Your party,” he reminded him, and was rewarded when Justin’s smile returned, pure and blinding even in the dim light from the small high window.    
  
Justin’s eyes sparkled, and his voice was low as he asked, “So, what if I told you I didn’t want a big party?”  
  
JC smiled back, leaning forward in the quiet cell and dropping his voice to match Justin’s tone, pushing all other sounds away.  “What would you rather have?”  
  
Justin looked down as he scooped up another mouthful of gruel, spooning it into his mouth before handing the pail to JC.  “Maybe I’d rather have something a little more quiet.  I mean, a party would be great, but maybe we could do something quieter to celebrate too.”  His eyes were so blue, and they met JC’s with a determined sort of directness that made his heart stutter.  “Just us.”  
  
JC took the pail from Justin’s warm fingers and spooned up a mouthful of the food, chewing and swallowing before he answered.  His heart was starting to thud heavily in his chest.  
  
“Well, maybe what you’d like is to go somewhere for dinner.  There’s, um, there was this place in the middle steppe, and there was always really good music in the evenings, and good ale, and they had an inner court yard that was open, under the stars . . .”  
  
Justin’s eyes were wide and steady on his as he took back the bucket, folding his hands around it.  “Would you come and get me?” he asked, his voice soft, small and hopeful.  “Like, to my house?  And, you know, walk me there?”  
  
“Yeah,” JC answered.  “Yeah, I would.  After the last guard change, so we could watch the sunset from the upper steppe wall before we went.”  
  
“And then what?” Justin asked softly.  He was leaning closer, his mouth parted.  There was no sound but their own steady breathing.  No sound.  
  
“Well, we could walk there and ask for a table in the courtyard, so we could see the stars, but still be able to hear the music,” he said quietly, watching as Justin put the half finished meal pail carefully to the side.  “And I would give you a real toast, a better one, something that I’d rehearsed and prepared, telling you how proud I was of you.”  
  
“And there would be music?”  
  
“Oh yeah, good music.”  
  
“Would we dance?” Justin asked in a whisper, and when JC nodded he hesitated for a moment, then stood up and held out a hand to JC that only shook a little.  JC looked at it for a long time before placing his hand in Justin’s and letting him pull him to his feet.  Then he tugged Justin closer, letting go of his hand and wrapping his arms loosely around his waist.  He felt Justin do the same, his hands warm on JC’s hips, and they breathed each other in.  
  
It was so odd, JC thought fuzzily.  With the dim light and faintly fresh air drifting from the high window he could close his eyes and almost envision being there, in the little pub he’d visited a few times years ago.  The stars blinking warmly overhead, the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine from the hedges, feeling his body and the warm body of the young man in his arms, swaying gently to the strains of the music playing, soft and slow.  They moved easily together, eyes closed, moving closer and closer until their bodies leaned into each other.  Justin’s hands were moving, JC noted distantly, sliding slowly up his back and back down, curving over his waist.  Justin’s cheek was very warm against his.  
  
“And after dinner?” Justin whispered.  He sounded like he’d been walking uphill, and JC smiled.  
  
“I guess I’d walk you home,” he answered, his voice low and soft.  “Back to your door, and I’d hold your hand, and tell you again how amazing you are, and . . .” he stopped, because Justin had leaned back and was looking at him with huge, luminous eyes, his lips parted.  
  
“And?” Justin prompted, and he was only inches away.  JC could see the flush of his skin even in this dim light, and beneath his hands he could feel Justin breathing shallowly, rapidly.  He had a jumbled memory of the battered boy who’d been dumped into the cell, a stark contrast to this tall, strong man in front of him.  He watched Justin swallow hard, his throat moving and he felt his own body responding to Justin’s closeness, his warmth, his scent.  
  
He lifted his mouth so it was a bare inch from Justin’s, watching as his eyelashes fluttered and his lips parted.  “And then I’d ask you, now that you weren’t my student anymore, if I could see you again, and if you said yes . . .”  
  
“I’d say yes,” Justin put in hurriedly, and JC breathed a small laugh, loving the way Justin’s face lit up when he smiled.  
  
“Then I’d do this,” JC finished, still smiling a little as he tilted his head and covered Justin’s mouth firmly with his own.  Justin’s lips were already parted, waiting for him, and when JC slid his tongue along Justin’s lower lip he opened completely, coaxing JC’s tongue in deeper, stroking it with his own.  
  
It was JC who gasped when he felt Justin’s hands move slowly up his back under his shirt, his hands warm and firm against his skin.  The shudder of his own arousal didn’t surprise him, but Justin’s, hard and hot against JC’s groin, did.  
  
Justin’s warm mouth made him dizzy, and he leaned away, faintly surprised to find his own hands curved firmly around Justin’s ass, holding him against him.  Justin was flushed and breathing heavily, his mouth red and swollen, his eyes half closed.  “Oh, Justin,” he whispered.  “Are you sure?”  
  
Justin leaned back to look at him, eyes huge and trusting as his fingers tangled in the hem of JC’s shirt.  “I am.”  His half smile twisted JC’s guts and sent his thudding heart into overdrive.  “I’ve wanted this, and I’ve waited for a long, long time.”  He hesitated, and swallowed once, hard.  “I just, I trust you, JC.  I do.  And I don’t want to be afraid any more.”  
  
JC kissed him again, because he couldn’t help it, smiling as he felt Justin’s fingers eagerly pulling at his own shirt.  He let Justin strip the shirt off of him before doing the same to Justin, exposing the long torso, tracing the laddered ribs and pale skin, smoothing over the firm chest and abdomen.  Then he took Justin’s hand in one hand and grabbed the folded blankets in the other, and led him to the dark end of the cell, farthest from the door.  
  
Justin was radiating heat beside him as he helped JC unfold the blankets and arrange them on the floor, and when he stood he couldn’t keep his hands off of JC’s body, tracing his fingers across his back, over his buttocks, up his arms.  JC turned to kiss him again and Justin wrapped his arms around him and squeezed, his arousal hard and demanding against him, and JC had some trouble making room to pull the drawstring on Justin’s pants and loosen them enough to pull them down.  
  
Justin froze when he felt his pants pool around his ankles, breathing hard, and JC stopped, one hand on Justin’s hip, the other on his shoulder.  “You okay?” he asked quietly, and Justin nodded, jerkily.  JC kissed him again, kept kissing him until Justin started to respond, his hands moving up JC’s bare sides and over his shoulders and into his hair, his tongue licking eagerly at the corners of JC’s mouth.  He spent some time mouthing Justin’s long throat, listening to him gasp, then slid slowly to his knees.  
  
Justin froze again when JC ran his hands up the insides of his thighs and reached for his long hard cock, stroking his tongue up and down before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.  Justin inhaled on a gasp, but his hands threaded tentatively through JC’s hair, and JC kept sucking until he could see Justin’s eyes close, his head tilt back as his hips began to thrust involuntarily.  Leaning back, he took Justin’s hands and drew him down to the blankets, pulling his own pants down before wrapping his arms around Justin and finding his mouth, kissing him deeply.  
  
He smoothed his hands over Justin’s warm shoulders and down his back, nestling him closer and feeling Justin’s erection slide into place in the groove of JC’s abdomen, groaning softly as Justin’s hips flexed and ground deliciously against his own cock.  Justin was kissing the side of his neck, his mouth and hands growing frantic on JC’s body, his hips thrusting helplessly.  JC cupped Justin’s smooth and firm ass and spread his own legs, digging his heels into the blanket for leverage, rolling under Justin’s body as they found their rhythm.  He grit his teeth as Justin’s hands bruised his hips, hearing him pant desperately as his hips flexed and ground down.  Heat splintered down JC’s spine, the tightness growing in his belly as his body screamed for release, but he ground his teeth together and waited until Justin stiffened and arched, gasping JC’s name.  JC felt the moist warmth spread between them, and then he locked his ankles around Justin’s knees, spread his hands over his ass, and with a groan let go.  
  
Justin was completely limp and weighed a ton as he collapsed bonelessly on JC, his mouth open against JC’s throat.  He was still breathing hard and JC smoothed his hands up and down his back, soothingly.  It was a long time before Justin finally stirred, leaning away to smile into JC’s face, and JC felt his heart clench a little.  Justin looked so young, so beautiful and happy and relaxed, and it was so wrong and unfair that he was here, stuck in this dark and bleak place, with nobody but JC to appreciate him.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
“So, talk to me.  Tell me what you were like, when you were little, or something.”  JC’s voice was lazy, a low and husky murmur that slithered down Justin’s spine and tingled in his groin, even as he snorted with laughter.  
  
“When I was little?  Well, that’s kind of an odd request, considering how we just spent the last couple of hours, here,” he teased, and JC halfheartedly swatted at him.  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, grinning.  “You know what I meant.”  
  
Justin lifted his head from JC’s warm shoulder, determined not let him get away with it.  “I’m not sure I did.  I mean, I think I’m entitled to some sort of clarification,” he said with mock outrage, but subsided happily when JC pulled him close and kissed him, thoroughly, taking his time.  
  
“I was just thinking how backwards all of this is,” JC said soberly when he lifted his mouth and Justin was quiet.  “I mean, if we weren’t here,” he indicated the dungeon with a wave, “if none of this had happened.”  
  
Justin was still slightly flushed and blinking from JC’s kiss.  “You mean the invasion?” he asked quietly, and JC hesitated before nodding.  It was the first time either of them had brought up that day.  
  
“I wonder, sometimes,” he said.  “I mean, I’d seen you around the Yard and I knew who you were, of course.  Everyone knew who you were.”  He pulled Justin closer, rubbing the tip of his chin on the top of Justin’s head.  “I just wish that things were normal, that I could’ve met you outside, and, I don’t know, taken you to dinner and maybe met your family . . .”  He paused, and Justin felt JC freeze, arms stiffening around him.  His chest felt tight, and he took a long, slow breath.  
  
“It’s okay, JC,” Justin whispered.  “It’s okay.  Go on.”  
  
JC took a deep breath, his hands stroking soothingly down Justin’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Justin nodded against his shoulder, stroking a hand down JC’s chest.  
  
“So, you wish we could’ve dated.  Like normal,” Justin said quietly.  He relaxed against JC’s chest, letting the warmth curl inside him.  
  
“Yeah.  Like that,” JC said, and his hands were so gentle on Justin’s head, and face.  Justin couldn’t seem wipe the smile off his face.  
  
From far off there was the scraping echo of metal, cell doors opening, raised voices, and they both tensed as they waited for the screams.  When they came JC shuddered and Justin curled closer to him.  “Block it out,” he whispered.  “Look at me.”  He waited until JC’s eyes opened and focused on him.  “Block it out.”  
  
He took a deep breath before continuing.  “Well, I would’ve liked you to meet my family,” he said, and his voice cracked only a little bit.  “My parents – they were pretty cool,” he said quietly.  “I mean, they were busy, and we had nannies and stuff, but they were always around.  I don’t remember ever going to bed without one of them coming to tuck me in, and stuff.”  JC’s hand encouraged him to continue.  It was the first time he’d spoken about his family, and he took a another deep breath, fighting the lump in his throat.  
  
“My father would tell us bedtime stories about places up north.  How it was wide open, and there were no walls around their cities.  And there were no cities, actually, it was open and people had space and they got along, and there was no need for the walls.”  He blinked back the moisture in his eyes and cocked half a smile at JC, feeling JC’s fingers slide slowly, soothingly through his scalp.  “‘Course, it was my father telling the stories, so there were always dragons and fair maidens who needed to be rescued, and crap like that.”  
  
JC’s chest rumbled with laughter under his ear, and Justin smiled at the sound, snuggling closer.  
  
“My father used to tell my brother and me stories like that too,” JC said softly.  His voice was deeper, huskier.  He was getting sleepy, and Justin knew if he sat up and looked JC would have his eyes closed, his face relaxed.  “I always thought it sounded too good to be true, all that stuff about up north.”  
  
“Yeah.”  Justin was silent for a long time, relaxing into the feeling of JC’s hands smoothing his neck, his naked shoulders.  “It sounds good, though.  Maybe some day,” he paused and swallowed hard.  “Maybe someday, when we get out of here, we can go find it together.”  He raised his head to look into JC’s eyes, and didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he saw JC’s slow smile, the warmth in his eyes that flooded Justin’s whole being with almost-forgotten sunshine.  
  
“I’ve always wanted to travel,” JC said, his hand cupping Justin’s cheek.  “Did you know that?”  His smile grew as he pulled Justin to him, and the only sounds either of them heard were good ones.

~ ~ ~ ~


	18. Seventeen

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Seventeen  
  
 _One by one in the moonlight . . ._  
Conrad Aiken, Evening Song  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Chris and Joey met at the small, dark pub in the lower steppe almost every night.  The guards were accustomed to seeing them, two working men, both with oath papers that no one bothered to check anymore. They met, one in greasy clothing that smelled like the fish he'd been skinning all day, the other in the gray drab of the prison drudge, and they drank one large tankard each. They shouted at each other for cheating at dice, elbowed each other good naturedly as they took their turns at darts, and if their voices got a little louder as their tankards emptied the guards took no notice. Neither of them had ever caused any trouble. They were simply two nondescript working men blowing off a little steam in the evening before a good night's sleep and another long working day. They were part of the scenery, a constant in the changing crowd of people that drifted in and out of this particular pub. Hiding in plain sight, Chris thought with a bleak amusement.  
  
The lower steppe was still more heavily guarded than the upper or even the middle. There had been a great deal of trouble directly after the battle, when Richardson's troops had run wild through the wide avenues, burning homes and buildings, killing civilians, binding young men and women and dragging them to their brothels.  The people who had fought with what few weapons they could muster had been executed, and those that remained feared for the lives of their families.  There hadn't been even a whisper of revolution -- at least not that the guards could hear.  
  
It was there though, in the eyes that narrowed slightly at the Richardson troops at their posts, in the barely tightened lips of the civilians as they passed. As Chris took his first gulp of ale -- thoughtfully watered down by the sympathetic bar keep, who knew that Chris and Joey wanted no alcohol to loosen their tongues -- he thought that perhaps the time was coming. The guards were starting to get lazy and inattentive.  Richardson and his brothers felt secure enough in the City to start turning their attention outside of it, but the faces of the civilians around him still wore a grim bitterness that said they had not accepted the new rule, that had not given up.   
  
It had chafed at Chris to sign the loyalty oath papers much as it bothered him to wrap his short sword and daggers carefully in oilcloth and bury them with his royal guard uniform deep in the hard soil of Joey’s cellar. But thoughts of his mother and his younger sister stiffened his resolve. He had family to care for and he couldn't afford to be imprisoned, or banished, or executed. His mother hadn't been the same since the day of the battle, had never stopped asking Chris for news about his younger sister, who hadn't been seen since the soldiers had dragged her screaming from their house.  His mother now spent much of her life hiding in Joey’s dark cellar or peering fearfully through the curtains at his windows, and Chris knew that he hadn't seen a woman under middle age or out of childhood on the streets alone since the takeover. He felt the familiar impotent rage curdle in his stomach and forced it down with strength of will and another gulp from his tankard. There wasn't a family in the lower steppe who didn't have a similar tale to tell.  
  
"You're not going to believe this."

  
He'd been so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn't seen Joey's approach. He raised his eyes as Joey turned to accept a tankard from the bar keep with a grim smile and a wink, and again felt the rage threaten to engulf him. Joey, whom he'd known since they were teenagers training in the Yard, who could always be counted on for a good laugh, a filthy but hilarious joke, a brutally intense short sword sparring session. He was kind, loyal, honest, a good man with a good heart, but he hadn't been the same since the brutal days after the battle, when his wife and baby daughter had disappeared forever. Joey had been one of the first in the lower steppe to sign the oath papers allowing him to work and Chris knew that he volunteered for the most dismal tasks in the City's dungeons and brothels in an attempt to find a sign, any sign, of Kelly and Brianha. Chris forced a smile as Joey sat across the wooden plank table from him, his eyes tracing the hard lines around Joey's eyes and mouth. They weren't caused by laughter.  
  
"Believe what?" Chris was careful to keep his voice casual, disinterested.  
  
Joey's hands gripped tightly around his tankard and there was something different about him tonight, something that made Chris's eyes narrow as he tried to discern the reason for it. It wasn't the tone of his voice, or even his body language, which was relaxed, slumped a little in tiredness. A soldier as finely trained as Joey knew not to tip off any watchers, but his eyes burned with a glow that made Chris's senses sharpen. "What? What is it?"   
  
Joey picked up the dice and raised his eyebrows at Chris, who nodded. He shook them hard in the tin cup, harder and longer than necessary, and used the rattle and clatter as they rolled on the wooden plank table to cover his low words.  
  
"In the dungeons. I'm sure it's the boy, the prince . . ."  
  
Chris scooped up the dice and spent a moment arguing with Joey about whether he'd called fours or sixes before throwing them hard into the tin cup. He put his hand over the opening as he shook, the loud rattle muffling his "that's impossible, Joe, you know they were all executed . . ."  
  
The dice hit the table with another loud clatter and Chris groaned as Joey whooped and clapped his hands. Chris complained good naturedly about cheating, keeping his voice at mid level when Joey's dropped to whisper, "I'm _sure_ , Chris. He's in with an Undermaster from the north yard, JC, short and long swordsman, do you remember him? I knew him in recruits, in the royal Yard, but I'm almost sure that's him. But the other. The boy. They're in an offshoot of the lower dungeons, what used to be supply caverns, I think, but I'm sure it's one of the young Timberlakes. The oldest boy. Justin."  
  
Chris was frozen, staring, and Joey snatched the cup from his hand and loudly scooped the dice into it, starting again to rattle. "You want luck? I'll show you luck, fisherman!" he exclaimed loudly, but his eyes were serious and intent as they met Chris's over the table.  
  
"Fine, Joe. Show me your stinking luck!" he responded jovially, but even to him his voice sounded hollow as the possibilities spun through his mind. The Timberlake heir, spared the executions that had wiped out his whole family, forgotten in a lower dungeon cell for all this time . . . could it be possible? If it was, and if they could get him out, it would be a way to galvanize the sluggish dissatisfaction and resentment Chris felt around him as he sat in the pub, walked the streets, worked at the fish yards. There were many fighters, hiding in the City beneath their oath papers.  Might the prospect of restoring someone of the true ruling family to the palace be a way to unite them all, give them purpose?  
  
Joey's face moved into what could almost be termed a smile, and Chris felt the same sort of fierce exhilaration that burned in Joey's eyes. Finally, it was time to take action.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	19. Eighteen

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Eighteen  
 _  
Are as moonlight unto sunlight,  
and as water unto wine._  
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Locksley Hall  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The first thing they did each morning was scratch a line on one of the dark gray bricks, a small mark to herald the coming day, marks organized neatly in groups of five, sixty total on each brick. They did it together, so if the day was too dull and started to bleed into the one before it they could remind each other later that yes, they've already counted this one.  
  
They were reaching the end of the fifteenth brick now, and Justin thought absently that soon it would be time to chip off another piece of the stone crumbling in the corner, another sharp stone to make the scratches with.  JC stood near him as he rolled the small piece of flint between his fingers, his body still warm from sleep, and Justin leaned toward him unconsciously, his eyes still on the sharp piece of black flint.  
  
Fifteen bricks altogether, plus one other brick with a few lonely hatch marks from when JC had been in the long dark cell alone. Not long, he said, just a day or two. He'd been locked up on the first day of the battle, and he said that Justin had arrived, beaten and unconscious and already feverish from an infected wound just a few days later. It had been a long time before Justin had felt better.  They’d guessed at how many days, making the scratches carefully, and then they’d started keeping accurate track of the days.  
  
JC leaned a little closer, his hand reaching over to fold around Justin's thin shoulder, the touch warm through his thin shirt. At the beginning he had not quite been JC's height; now he was a little bit taller. He wondered if his eighteenth birthday was near.  The mass of hatch marks on the stones in front of him made him weary.  It was too much to try to figure out, and he decided with a smile that it must have been yesterday. Last night.  
  
"Sun's up," JC said, though in truth it was just as dark as it had been an hour previously, when Justin had woken JC slowly, his hands gentle on the lean planes and hollows of JC’s body.  But he could feel the light growing brighter around him without looking up from the black flint, the gray brick in front of him.  And he could hear JC's smile as the hand on his shoulder squeezed a little. "It is your turn," he reminded him, "but if you don't feel like you can handle it . . ."  
  
"Hey now," Justin protested. "I can handle it." He made the mark with a strong, decisive downward slash and placed the piece of flint carefully in the dark corner where it couldn't be seen from the barred door. He turned to face JC in the slowly gathering light from the small window up against the ceiling, and when JC's hand fell from his shoulder he slid his own into it, lacing their fingers together. JC's face was still blurry from lack of sleep; last night their rest had been interrupted over and over by desperate wailing screams echoing eerily down the silent corridors.  But now he smiled at Justin, sunny and open, and Justin felt his heart swell with a happiness so pure, so uncomplicated that he had to pause and take an extra breath. But it still beat inside him, fluttering like a bird deep in his stomach, in his heart. "I can handle anything."  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	20. Chapter 20

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Nineteen  
  
 _This night of no moon . . ._  
Ono No Komachi, “Kokinshu”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
They had to put it off for three consecutive nights, nights when the moon shone directly overhead with an odd brilliance that illuminated every corner of the City.  But the next night was cloudy, the stars dim and far away, and when Joey angled a questioning look at him Chris nodded yes.  Tonight.  
  
They dressed quietly in the small hours of the morning, pulling on dark gray clothing and carefully wrapping their knives so there would be no shine, and no rattle.  Their boots, wrapped in outer shoes of thick cloth, muffled their steps.  Joey led the way, skirting the edge of the middle steppe and angling through a back alley on the south side of the upper steppe.  Chris was completely disoriented until a break in the tall hedge showed him the familiar alabaster half-walls and red gate of the Royal Yards.  Looking up through the night mist Chris could see the sharp slope of the palace walls, and one of its spires reaching into the sky.  It looked bigger and so much more imposing in the dark, from this angle.  Chris had an odd, disjointed half memory of taking class in the royal Yard as a boy, seeing the palace with its pale walls and big windows framed warmly against a clear blue sky.  This didn’t even look like the same building.  
  
Joey moved like a shadow and Chris hurried to keep up as he slid around the back of one of the smaller Yards and moved beyond the old Undermasters’ lodgings.  Chris’s brow furrowed and he glanced involuntarily behind him.  He knew the back entrance to the dungeon level was in the opposite direction, closer to the south gate, but Joey’s stride didn’t falter.  Finally, Chris reached forward to tap Joey on the shoulder, pointing in the direction of the dungeon with a questioning look, but Joey shook his head firmly and gestured forward.  
  
“Hidden passage,” he said, his voice barely audible even in the still air.  “It’s how the Richardsons took the palace, but hardly anyone alive knows the way now.”  His lips twisted bitterly.  “They sure don’t need it anymore.”  
  
Chris felt a chill as they passed around the buildings, the abandoned armory, and through a narrow and dark hedgerow.  Far from the residences of the upper steppe, the path plunged along the side of the ridge beneath the palace, winding deeper through a hedgerow that was now overgrown and unkempt.  Chris strained to see his way, almost tripping over the unevenness of the path as it wound around, and then inside the ridge.  
  
Joey stopped suddenly and Chris barely kept from running into him, his eyes straining in the gloom.  Joey was silent and still, and Chris listened with him.  There was moving water nearby, the soft lap of a small stream perhaps, but other than the buzz of insects there was no sound.  
  
“Once in awhile they post a guard here,” Joey murmured quietly.  “I know there wasn’t one three nights ago, but I want to be sure.”  
  
They hunkered down, part of the deep shadows of the overgrown hedge, and waited silently for a long time.  There were no other noises, and finally Joey nudged him and they continued carefully on.  
  
The path became a narrow trail of hard packed dirt that led them deep into what seemed like solid rock until Chris realized it was a cave, a narrow and claustrophobic trail that climbed gradually up until it became rough-hewn steps, wide and shallow.  There was no light.  Chris felt his way gingerly, one hand on the wall beside him and one hand on Joey’s back, crouching so he didn’t hit his head on the low ceiling.   
  
Chris felt the rush of ventilation just before the ceiling rose and their path leveled out.  There was a faint scent of leather and old metal and, oddly, stale spice.  There were tiny windows, barred, high up on the ceiling in the corners and Chris could just make out the sky outside, a slightly paler black than the walls around them.  There was no torchlight in these old and abandoned corridors.  The silence stretched thickly, and he found that he had one hand on his sword, his senses straining for sight, sound.  
  
He felt rather than saw Joey turn to him, gesturing silently to the hallway on the left.  They walked lightly, hugging the wall and now there was some faint illumination from a torch far off at the end of the corridor.  As they got closer they saw a guard in Richardson livery, hunched on the ground in the torch’s glow, sleeping deeply.  Joey drew his knife but Chris put his hand on his arm, stilling him.  If they could get what they’d come for and get out without raising an alarm, so much the better.  And a dead guard would definitely raise an alarm.  
  
Their steps were agonizingly slow and utterly silent as they passed the snoring man, and Joey hesitated at a fork in the corridor before choosing the left, darker branch.  The rough walls and floor had smoothed into more familiar blocks of precisely cut stone.  There was a noise, far off at the end of the corridor, a pain-filled and hopeless moan.  Chris stiffened but Joey grasped his arm and shook his head.  He leaned close to whisper into his ear.  
  
“We can’t save them all, Chris.  There are too many.”    
  
Chris fought the rage, focusing fiercely on why they were here tonight.  If Joey was right, if the Richardsons were unwittingly holding one of the Timberlake boys in this dungeon, getting him out of here would be the first step toward righting countless wrongs, returning the world to its proper place.  Chris drew a deep breath and quietly wiped the sweat dripping down his face.  Focus.  
  
He nodded at Joey and they proceeded up a gradually arcing corridor, passing two burned out torches.  Joey stopped in front of a narrow barred opening, and dug in his pocket for the pick.  
  
It was a new pick, a shiny and clean piece of metal made expressly to open old and rusty locks.  Chris didn’t ask where he’d gotten it, he just watched in silence as Joey squinted in the darkness at the keyhole in the lock of the door.  There was a very faint illumination coming from inside the cell, a barred window far up in the corner of the ceiling.  The rest of the cell was in utter blackness.  Joey fumbled with the pick, causing a sharp scraping noise, and Chris grit his teeth.  
  
The heavy darkness inside of the cell seemed to have eyes, flat and menacing and watching every move they made.  Joey opened the lock with a faint, grating scrape, and nudged the door open.  He looked at Chris, and for a moment they both hesitated.  Chris felt an odd shiver of trepidation as a trickle of sweat ran icily down his back, but he shook it off, remembering the boy inside.  With Joey close at his back he stepped carefully across the threshold, his eyes straining to see.  
  
He sensed the blow coming long before he saw it, a perfect and deadly swinging arc of a fist that cut through the still air in complete silence.  Chris barely blocked it in time, deflecting the blow from his ear and already twisting to protect his solar plexus from the vicious kick that he knew would follow.  He was too slow -- a hard and bony foot connected neatly with his left arm and dear god, that was going to leave a gigantic bruise.  Numbed, his left arm was captured neatly and twisted.  Chris struggled desperately, bending his body to avoid the torque, but he had his knife in his right hand as he swung around to face his still unseen attacker.  Behind him he heard Joey grunt as he grappled with someone else, heard him hiss “Timberlake!” The man holding Chris froze, his hand already around Chris’s hand, ready to wrest the knife from him.  The scuffling stopped.  Suddenly there was silence in the cell.  
  
Chris’s eyes had adjusted and he stared at the boy in front of Joey, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, crouched in an defensive stance.  The faint light from the small window made everything look surreal, black and white, but on his face Chris could see the unmistakable stamp of the Timberlake family: the scraggly curled hair, the pointed nose, the square jaw.  Chris blinked, his breath coming fast, and he realized that until this very moment, he had not truly believed Joey could be right.  
  
The boy was staring at Joey with murder in his eyes, but the man holding Chris slackened his hold slightly, his hand dropping from Chris’s knife as he stepped away.  
  
Chris massaged his wrist as he stepped slightly forward.  “Justin,” he whispered, and the boy’s eyes flickered toward him, squinted.  “Justin, do you remember me?”  
  
It was Justin, there was no mistaking the eyes, the shape of the face.  He was much taller, pale and gaunt, but it was him.  Chris had to suppress a smile as recognition blinked into the blue eyes.  
  
“Chris,” he said softly, and his voice was a bit deeper, but there was a glimmer of the smile Chris remembered, a flash of teeth. Chris had another flicker of memory: a quiet boy with intent blue eyes hanging around the outside of the Yard walls, a boy who had been a pleasure to guard, always eager to talk, to laugh.  He smiled at him, was rewarded with another almost-smile, and felt Joey relax.  
  
“Hey, Justin,” he said quietly.  “Justin.  Hey, man, we’re gonna get you out of here . . .”  
  
“Joe?” was whispered quietly from behind him, and Chris swung around to look at the man who had so nearly taken his weapon.  
  
He was taller than Chris but whipcord thin, his cheeks hollowed and his eyes huge.  There was a vague familiarity to his stance, his lean form, the way he held his head.  He looked frail, but Chris, his left arm still tingling and numb, knew better.  
  
“Joe,” the man said, blinking rapidly, and now they were all looking at him.  “Joey, you have to get Justin out of here.”  
  
“That’s what we’re going to do,” Joey whispered, and Chris nodded.  “I don’t think anyone knows who he is but it’s not safe  . . .”  
  
Justin had moved around Chris to stand next to the man, looking intently into his face.  “JC,” Chris heard him whisper, but JC didn’t even look at him, although his palm spread against Justin’s back.  JC’s eyes flickered from Chris back to Joey.  
  
“The drudges don’t care,” he said quietly, “but one of the Richardsons was in the dungeons earlier today, pulling people out of the cells.  We could hear the screams . . .” he hesitated, and swallowed noisily.  “They didn’t come down here, but if they do . . .” he trailed off and Justin stepped closer to him, saying his name again, his eyes intent on JC’s face.  
  
Chris spoke up.  “That’s why we came, to get him out of here.  There’s a back passage . . .” he said, and then hesitated as Justin shot him a wide-eyed look, shuddering and hunching his shoulders.  “We need to go, though.  Now.  There’s only one guard, but he’s only asleep.”  
  
Joey had moved to the door, clearly ready to leave, and JC finally faced Justin.  “Go with them,  You’ll be safe with them,” he whispered.  
  
“You’re coming too,” Justin whispered back, and Chris shook his head.  
  
“We can’t take both of you,” he said, feeling the black rage curl through his stomach again as he thought of the pained moan he’d heard earlier.  “They’ll suspect if the cell is empty.  We can only take Justin.”  JC nodded, like he’d already thought of that, like it made sense.  His hand, still on Justin’s back, nudged him toward the open door.  Chris stepped forward to touch Justin’s elbow, to steer him to the doorway where Joey waited, but Justin flinched violently from Chris’s hand, crossing his arms over his stomach and planting his bare feet.    
  
“I won’t go without him,” he said firmly, his face twisting into a painful line, like he was fighting tears.  
  
JC sighed as Joey and Chris’s eyes met across the cell.  “Justin,” JC started, and Justin turned to him.  
  
“No way, Jayce,” he said, softly.  “I won’t do it.”  His mouth curved in a twisted grimace that might have been a smile, and Chris blinked as Justin uncrossed his arms and placed his hands carefully on JC’s narrow waist.  “We stay or we go,” he murmured.  “But you’re stuck with me.  I’m not leaving you.”  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment, seeming to forget Chris and Joey and the open door.  “Remember up north?”  Justin whispered.  “First, we gotta get out of here.  You know that.”  
  
Joey met Chris’s eyes and jerked his head at the door, urgent and impatient, and Chris nodded in agreement.  JC and Justin were still staring at each other and seemed to be arguing without words.  JC dropped his eyes first, his mouth twisting ruefully as he nodded, and Chris saw Justin take a deep, relieved breath.  
  
“Let’s go, then,” Chris whispered.  “We don’t have all night.”  
  
JC nodded again and stepped into the blackness of the cell, returning with several small covered pails in his hands which he carried to the door.  Chris nodded in approval; the drudges would pick them up in the morning and leave more, and with a little luck the empty cell wouldn’t be discovered until the following evening.  
  
Then he stepped back to let Justin and JC follow Joey out the door, their hands clasped tightly.  As he crossed the threshold Justin hesitated and looked back, his expression wistful and almost sad as he stared back into the dark, bleak little cell.  Then JC tugged his hand and he looked forward, stepping lightly into the corridor.  
  
Chris quietly pulled the barred door shut, feeling the lock catch with a metallic grind.  Then he followed.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	21. Twenty

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty  
  
 _The brilliant moon and all the milky sky . . ._  
William Butler Yeats, The Sorrow of Love  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Chris had worried from the beginning about the logistics of sneaking Justin through the back passage and out of the castle, but now the task seemed even more daunting.  Joey’s training was rock solid -- there were few that Chris would have trusted more on an endeavor like this -- but Justin was untrained and the need for speedy and silent movement was critical.  And now they had a fourth person too, and Chris knew JC only by reputation.  Chris had always been a little suspicious of the royal Yard masters.  They were decorative and they certainly knew their Yard work, but would they be any good in a real fight?  
  
He followed them carefully, alert for any sounds that might indicate they’d been discovered, were being followed.  Joey was a completely silent presence at the front of their little caravan, moving lightly, just a darker part of the shadows.  Behind him JC moved easily, his bare feet quiet and sure.  Justin also moved quietly, slightly crouched and vibrating with tension.  Chris saw Joey hold up one hand as they approached the corner where the sleeping guard had been.  He peered slowly around the edge of the dark gray wall, hidden from the torch’s flickering light, and Chris saw that Joey had drawn his knife.  He drew his own, feeling suspense curl sickly in his stomach, and noted with absent approval that Justin had followed JC’s lead and placed himself flush against the wall, out of the way.  They all froze.  
  
Joey signaled them to wait and as one they dropped silently to the floor, crouching carefully against the darkness of the wall as Joey slipped around the corner.  Chris strained his ears but heard nothing, not Joey’s footsteps, or the breathing of the two men in front of him, or anything that indicated Joey might have used his knife.  The darkness and silence were complete and suffocating.  Justin was trembling, but he made no noise, and Chris was pleased.  
  
Joey was back, signaling them to follow, quickly, and as Chris rounded the corner he saw that the guard they had seen sleeping beneath the lone torchlight on their way in was gone, perhaps to make rounds, perhaps to relieve himself.  Or perhaps his shift was over and no relief had come.  If Joey was back, the guard was not ahead of them, so Chris dropped back a little to cover their retreat.  His straining ears still heard nothing.  
  
JC’s instincts seemed to be good; he’d pushed Justin ahead of him and had dropped back with Chris.  His footsteps made no sound whatsoever as they moved through the dank and unused corridor and down the steps into the cave Joey and Chris had climbed a mere half an hour ago.  Joey was moving faster now, more familiar with the cave and the descent, and Justin was right behind him, turning now and then to look over his shoulder at JC.  The sound of running water gradually grew, and the faint illumination ahead told Chris that they were almost outside when Joey called another silent halt.  
  
It was brighter now than when they’d entered the caves, and Chris knew that dawn couldn’t be too far away.  It was barely light enough to see the walls, the gradually sloping path before them, but Justin and JC were both squinting.  Justin was looking around at the underground passage, his expression tight lipped and bleak, and Chris wondered if he’d ever been down here, if his family had even known about this passage.  From Justin’s expression they had, but there had been no opportunity to use it.  He watched as Justin fidgeted with the hem of his filthy shirt and moved to stand closer to JC, and he wondered suddenly how long it had been since either of them had seen the sun.  
  
Joey dropped to a crouch and pulled his pack from his back.  Rooting quickly through it he pulled a clean but wrinkled pair of yard pants and a shirt from it, throwing it to Justin.  “Put these on,” he whispered, and Justin nodded, moving to the darkness of the wall.  JC stood protectively between him and Chris as Justin stripped quickly out of his filthy prison clothing.  
  
Chris dropped his own pack and stripped off his vest.  JC pants were dark enough, but his shirt was ragged and torn, and they had a long way to travel to the lower steppe.  He peeled out of his black long sleeved cotton undershirt and tossed it to JC, who caught it neatly.  He pulled off his filthy shirt and Chris tried not to wince at the ladder of his prominent rib cage.  The dark shirt made JC’s too-pale skin glow oddly.  
  
Joey had pulled a small pair of clippers out of his pack, the kind farmers used to shear sheep, and had set to work on Justin’s overgrown mop of hair.  He’d tossed another pair of scissors to JC, who had already snipped the worst of the hair off his own face, and now he was handing them to Chris, pointing silently to his head.  
  
Chris would never allow a total stranger that close to him with a sharp object, but he guessed the circumstances were unusual, and JC glimmered a wry smile at him that said he was thinking the same thing.  He quickly cut the worst of the mattings and tangles out, making it as even as possible while Joey gathered up the filthy clothing and piles of hair and kicked them silently to the running stream.  The clothing sank as the water swirled, pulling the tangles of hair apart and away, headed for the sea.  
  
Joey’s eyes met Chris’s and he nodded crisply.  “Just act casual,” Chris whispered to JC, and this time both he and Justin grinned.  “We’re headed to the lower steppe.  Just act like you’re getting off work or something,  and you’re tired.”  
  
“Slump over, keep your head down,” Joey suggested quietly, and led them into the light.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	22. Twenty-One

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-One  
  
 _A sadder light than waning moon_  
John Greenleaf Whittier, Snowbound  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
“Hold on.”  
  
Justin was already wrapping himself around JC, burrowing his face into the warmth of his neck, his mouth opening to taste.  It took a moment for the words to sink in.  
  
“Justin, wait a minute.”  
  
Justin lifted his head, distracted by JC’s dark eyes, the movement of his adam’s apple when he swallowed.  He licked his lips.  “What?”  
  
JC gulped again, his mouth working silently for a moment before the words came out.  “We shouldn’t, um, we’re not alone anymore, you know . . .”  He trailed off, blinked hard, and then finished with “you know, there are _people_.”  
  
Justin’s fingers were still stroking under the hem of JC’s shirt, urgent on the smooth skin of his waist.  His body clamored at him and he struggled to concentrate.  “People?” he asked dazedly, looking uncertainly around the clean, dry attic room of Joey’s house.  “Where?”  
  
Despite everyone’s fears, the trip across the steppes from the underground passage beneath the castle had been largely uneventful.  None of the few citizens they’d passed had taken any notice of them, and they’d had to halt only once to avoid a small detachment of the Richardson guard making its way down one of the minor avenues of the middle steppe.  And that was good, Chris had said, his dark eyes intent on the uniforms as they moved away.  No alarm had been raised, or the guard would be showing some sign.  
  
They had followed Joey carefully through a rabbit’s warren of narrow back alleys and dark curved streets, emerging only to take the main stepped paths leading from upper to middle, from middle to lower steppe.  Justin had kept his eyes down, watching his own feet and Joey’s, but he’d still seen the litter gathered at the edges of the main avenues, the weeds sprouting in the dark and damp corners of buildings, smelled the ripe stench of old and rotting roof thatch.  He’d heard JC murmur to Chris that it was darker, that wall was higher here too, but Justin would not look up.  The sky stretched over him in a dizzying expanse of gradually brightening blue and Justin’s eyes clung desperately to the ground, irrationally terrified that the sky would crush him.  He refused to look up at the castle, and he didn’t breathe easily until the door of Joey’s small house had closed firmly behind them.  
  
He hadn’t realized he’d been shaking until JC had stepped close beside him, patting him quietly on the back and silently allowing Justin to lean against him.  The little house was dim and cool in the pre-dawn light, and Justin relaxed in relief.  Chris had gone to the front room to speak quietly to his mother, a vague woman who’d smiled gently at Justin and JC with an utter lack of curiosity.  There had been a tiny washroom where they’d been able to scrub off what felt like years of grime, and food they were both too anxious to eat.  Joey had offered them separate rooms but Justin had refused, instantly, earning a grimly raised eyebrow from Joey and a suppressed smirk from Chris.  But from JC there had been only silence until now.  
  
Although he was in a clean, comfortable place for the first time in years, Justin was still thrumming with residual fear and tension from the escape, and he struggled with the urge to keep running, to grab JC and flee the city forever.  But this was madness: the minute Justin's and JC's empty cell was discovered, an alarm would be raised, Joey and Chris said, and it would be folly to be seen in broad daylight.  But Justin still longed to bolt through the gates and over the walls, to put this place of horrible memories and high walls far behind him, to start running and never, ever stop.  The one thing keeping the threads of his sanity from fraying and completely unraveling was the silent and powerful presence of the man in front of him.  
  
Justin took a series of deep breaths, closing his eyes and using Yard techniques to calm himself.  Gradually the feelings of fright and urgency subsided, allowing him to take in his surroundings, to be amazed at the clean scent of the air, at the pale golden light that filtered through the venting slats in the small attic, so very different from the blue gray murk they’d been living in for so long.  This room was smaller than their dungeon, but the air was fresh, and although the sun hadn’t even come up over the wall yet, the light was so bright it made his eyes water.  He felt almost dizzy from being up so high, far above the ground instead of deep within it.  Giddy with disbelief and relief and a slowly dawning joy, Justin wrapped his arms around JC, desperate for his calm strength, his familiar smell and feel.  JC hugged him back hard, almost lifting Justin off his feet, squeezing him until Justin smiled, laughed out loud.  
  
Justin leaned in to kiss him, loving JC’s smooth and pale skin and full lower lip, entranced with the differences this light made to the sharp planes and hollows of his face, the shine from his clean, short cropped hair.  But now JC was stepping back, disentangling himself from Justin’s arms, putting a completely unacceptable distance between them, talking about people.  “What?” Justin asked again.  
  
JC stepped back and drew Justin’s hands away from his own waist, his face solemn even as his fingers tangled with Justin’s.  “It’s just, you know, we have to be more careful.  This, you and I, you know, some people aren’t going to understand,” and Justin knew JC was remembering Joey’s frown.  
  
“What does it matter?” he asked, reasonably.  “I mean, we’re leaving.  What do we care what anyone thinks of us?”  
  
JC’s blue eyes were steady on his.  “Are we?”  
  
The silence was between them was thick with expectation and Justin blinked, knowing but not wanting to know.  “Well, yeah.  I mean, not right away, but once they stop searching for us, we are.”  He felt a small tingle of dread, as sudden and unexpected as a bucket of ice down his spine.  “Aren’t we?”  
  
JC sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead.  “Do you really want to go?  I mean, is that what you want to do, or is it what you think I want to do?”  
  
Justin stared at him.  “Are you thinking that we shouldn’t?”  
  
JC cracked a smile, humor lightening his face.  “Well, look at us, talking in circles here.”  Justin smiled back at him, tension he didn’t know he had seeping easily away.  Everything was different but this hadn’t changed.  They could still communicate, with or without words, and he took a sudden comfort in that.  It was still JC, and him, and they were still together, and together there was nothing they couldn’t get through.  
  
“Okay, so talk.  You go first.”  
  
“Well, I’m thinking,” JC paused to gather his thoughts.  “I’m thinking, and I don’t think I’m wrong, that they didn’t break us out of that dungeon out of the goodness of their hearts.  I mean,” he held up his hand as Justin started to protest.  “I mean,” he continued, “I know that it was a very, very dangerous thing to do, and they did it because of who you are.  They’re both good people, or, they were, you know, when we knew them before.  But if they just wanted to set people free, there’s a whole dungeon full of people to pick from.  They came to get you, and they got you out for a reason.”  
  
Justin nodded.  The little room was getting lighter, the sun finally up over the tall dark walls of the City, and the brightness made him uneasy.  He rubbed his head, feeling his eyes squint and water a little, and he fought the irrational urge to crawl under the bed, block the windows, shut out the light.  
  
JC continued, his voice soft.  “You saw the City when we came down the hill, right?  The wall, the mess, the people we passed?”  He paused and Justin lifted his eyes to JC’s grim face.  “You know what they want, don’t you?  I mean, they’re Yard men, and so are you, now, and you’ve figured out what they want.”  
  
Justin, nodded slowly.  “They want to kill the Richardsons,” he said softly.  “They want to take the City back.”  
  
JC’s silence was agreement.  “Take it another step, Justin.” he prompted.  
  
“They want me, to, what.  Be some sort of figurehead for their revolution?  A reason for it?”  He snorted.  “They don’t need me for that, Jayce.  From the little I saw, they don’t need much of a reason to throw them out.”  
  
“You’re probably right,” JC said, and Justin noticed how tired he looked as he sat on the edge of the low little bed.  He was wearing some old Yard clothes of Joey’s, they both were, and JC’s hung from his narrow frame like clothes on a scarecrow.  “But is it only their revolution, Justin?  I mean, how do you feel about it?”  
  
Justin sighed and sat down beside JC, leaning a little against his shoulder.  He’d worked for more than two years to forget the events of the day of the invasion, to arm himself with the skills he needed to keep his own nightmares at bay.  Now, for the first time, he thought about the nightmares of others, of the people trapped in the deep dungeons that had never been used during his parents’ time, of the faceless citizens he’d passed that dawn beneath the dark gloom of the high City wall, of Chris’s aged and hard face, so much different from that of the laughing, smiling guard who had been so kind to him when he was a boy.  He thought of the litter and the stench of the lower steppe, a smell not unlike the hopelessness and gloom of the dungeon.  With a slowly rolling nausea and a chill that made goose bumps rise on his arm, he forced himself to remember Kevin and Brian Richardson, their knives and threats and the red hot agony of his own broken and bleeding body as they’d pulled the information they’d wanted from him, more than two years ago now.  He thought of the sick certainty and knowledge that he had just delivered his own family to their deaths.  Of how he’d closed his eyes, and prayed to die too.  
  
Justin didn’t realize there were tears running silently down the sides of his face until he felt JC, his fingers incredibly gentle, wiping them away.  JC didn’t ask any questions, just sat quietly beside him as Justin curled in remembered agony and whispered the last of his secrets to him, pulling him close when Justin finished.  They sat that way for a long time, until the brightness of the sun made them both close their eyes.  
  
JC pulled Justin close and kissed him chastely, rubbing his palm across his cheek to gather the last of the tears and coaxing a shaky smile from him.  “Okay?” he whispered, and Justin nodded.  JC’s eyes were warm, gentle, and Justin turned away from the golden sun filtering through the vent holes to drink in their light.  
  
“It was war, you know.  And you were untrained, you were just a child, and the only thing you should take from that day is the knowledge that they are evil, destructive people.”  JC waited until Justin nodded again.  “So, I’ll ask you again, based on everything that’s happened to you, and to this City, what do you want to do?”  
  
Justin took a deep breath.  “If I stay, and help them, will you stay with me?”  He could feel JC’s smile, even though he kept his eyes on their clasped hands.  
  
“That’s not telling me what you want to do,” he scolded mildly, and Justin smiled a little, still watery.  
  
“Fair enough.  Okay, what I want to do is leave as soon as it’s dark, find a way to get through the gates or over the wall, and get as far away from this place and everything that’s happened as possible.  With you.”  He paused, and took another deep breath.  
  
“But, I know what the right thing to do is.  I know what my mother would say is the right thing to do, and my father, and even what my baby brothers would say.  And if it wasn’t for Chris and Joey, we’d still be in that dungeon and we both know we wouldn’t have survived there forever.”  His fingers traced the fine bones in JC’s wrist as he gathered his thoughts.  “The right thing to do is to get rid of the Richardson family.  To make things right again.  And,” he took a deep breath, “and if they feel like they need me to do that, then I’ll stay.  Because it’s the right thing to do.”  
  
He finally raised his eyes to find JC watching him, smiling a little.  He smiled back, a little shaky still, and leaned into JC’s hand when it lifted to cup his face.  “JC.  Will you stay here, with me?”  
  
JC didn’t hesitate for too long, his hand gentle on Justin’s face, his eyes huge with sympathy, with pity and understanding.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I will.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	23. Twenty-two

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-Two  
  
 _By yonder blessed moon I swear . . ._  
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet II  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
This was the first time Joey had left the City since before the invasion and takeover.  It had cost a small fortune in bribes to the gate guards, almost everything he and Chris had been able to save and a substantial amount of what he’d hidden deep in the basement with his royal guard uniform and short sword.  It had been just enough, enough to make the guard forget to ask for JC’s papers, enough to make him glance at Joey’s oath papers and mark the okay for traveler’s papers in the roster.  A year ago it would not have been possible; there would’ve been three or even four guards at the small auxiliary northeast gate, all of them alert, most of them unwilling to be swayed by money or other goods.  There wouldn’t have been enough money to effect a bribe of that magnitude.  But now there was only a single guard at this gate, only one bribe to pay, and Joey took that as another sign.  
  
Recon, Chris had said, and Joey had agreed.  It was important to find out what the mood was in the outlying farms and villages, and to see how much of a presence the Richardsons maintained in the areas surrounding the City.  To both Chris and Joey it seemed that there were fewer guards inside the City.  Surprise inspections in neighborhood taverns and random looting of citizen’s homes had stopped almost completely.  Outposts that used to hold several guards now only held one or two.  Joey noted fewer dungeon guards as well.  None of the citizens seemed to notice, or if they did, it was simply commented on with relief.  Perhaps Richardsons’ men were simply home on furlough, perhaps there was some sort of Outside action happening, perhaps the Richardsons were simply getting lax.  Both Chris and Joey nurtured the secret hope that it was the latter, that the Richardsons did not have reinforcements within a couple hours’ ride.  
  
It had seemed very odd that no alarm had been raised over Justin and JC’s empty cell.  Careful investigation by Joey had revealed that each shift of prison drudges thought another shift had discovered the occupants dead, and emptied the cell.  It was a common enough occurrence.  Bodies were carried out of the dungeon every day, thrown into the refuse fires like so much garbage.  Still, it was an incredible stroke of luck that no inquiries or general alarms had been raised.  Joey took it as another sign.  The time was coming.   
  
Kelly had family that lived half a day’s ride to the northwest, Outside City folk who had farmed the same acreage for generations and who knew everybody in the northlands.  Joey ached fiercely to see them, although logic told him that if Kelly had made her way there safely she would’ve found a way to get word to him.  But more practically, if her family was still in the northwest lands they could give Joey a place to hide, and they would know all the local gossip, the mood and tenor of the people outside the City.  
  
Of course, City citizens with oath papers were not allowed to leave the walls without a formal written request and a hearing before one of the Richardson magistrates.  Such things had to be arranged well in advance and were subject to vigorous scrutiny.  There was no time to make such ridiculous arrangements, just as there was no way to explain JC’s sudden appearance, or non-appearance, on the citizenship rolls, a young, healthy man mysteriously without oath or traveling papers.  JC had changed a great deal since he’d been a prominent under-master in the royal Yard, but it was also possible that he would be recognized, detained, and executed.  It would have been safer for him to stay in Joey’s attic and hide, but once JC learned of Joey’s stealthy trip he was determined to accompany him, to try and find news of his own family.  
  
Justin had also been keenly interested in the trip until he learned that it was only a short distance to the northwest, that Joey would be back in less than two days if all went smoothly.  Then he was told that JC would be going.  Without warning Justin, who had been quiet and subdued in the month since they’d left the dungeon, had become stubborn, argumentative, and imperious.  He’d argued politely, then persuasively, then furiously about accompanying them on the trip, and had become incensed when Chris explained that there was no reason for him to risk his life Outside on such a mission, that he’d be much safer here in Joey’s house.  Justin had turned sneering and haughty, insisting that they had no right to keep him here, and Chris had become exasperated at his refusal to listen to reason.  It might have gone on until morning if JC hadn’t come in, listened with a frown for a few minutes as Justin hurled commands and Chris flatly refused to back down, and then had taken Justin’s arm and led him to another room for a few quiet minutes of talk.  When they’d returned, Justin had been tight jawed with resentment, but agreeable, and the subject had been dropped.  
  
Joey thought of that now, remembered the timbre of the low conversation behind the closed door, how neither voice had ever raised although Justin had been close to shouting at Chris only moments earlier.  He remembered seeing JC’s hand, steady on the small of Justin’s back as Justin had made a fumbling apology to Chris a few minutes later.  He thought about how Justin had followed them to the back door as they made ready to slip out in the dark hours before daylight, hugging them both, wishing them luck, and safety.  “And come back, fast,” he’d added, his eyes huge and anxious, completely at odds with his casual tone.    
  
“Yes, come back fast,” Chris had parroted.  “Please don’t leave me here alone to babysit for all eternity.”  Justin had rolled his eyes, but there had been an easing of the tension.  
  
Joey remembered the way JC had smiled at Justin, his eyes intent.  “Tomorrow night,” he’d promised, and they hadn’t kissed or even touched each other that Joey had seen, but there had been something there.  An odd feeling as he watched, like he was intruding on a very private moment.  It had made Joey uncomfortable, and he’d been frowning as his eyes met Chris’s.  He’d shrugged it off as he stepped out the door.  
  
There had been no horses to borrow for their trip.  The stables that had once been well equipped outside the northeast gate were abandoned and already falling into disrepair.  “Okay, so we jog,” JC had whispered, and he’d actually sounded pleased about it, bouncing energetically on the balls of his feet as Joey adjusted his pack.  They’d set out immediately on foot, getting out of sight of the main gate and its gatekeepers long before first light and keeping to the narrow foot trails rather than the more heavily traveled roads leading north.  As the high walls disappeared behind them, Joey had felt an exhilarating lightness, an almost forgotten feeling of freedom.  Focused as he’d been for the last two years on finding his family and setting his world right again, he hadn’t realized just how oppressive living within those walls had become.  
  
Joey had not forgotten what a good Yard man JC had been, and it was soon obvious that despite his confinement he had not allowed himself to get weak.  They’d been quite alone on the northern foot trail, and though their pace had been quick, making up for the lack of horses, they found the breath to talk quietly.  Everyone was reluctant to talk about the invasion and its aftermath, but JC was hungry for news, knew nothing of what had happened in the City since the invasion and his own imprisonment.  He and Joey had traveled in the same loose circles for most of their lives, had gone to school and Yard together and had many mutual friends and acquaintances, and JC grilled Joey for news on every one of them.  
  
Very little of what Joey could tell him was good.  His voice had been somber as he recounted the list of those he knew for sure were dead: Ryan, Chase, Lindsey and Tasha, all killed in battle.  Nikki and Christina, captured and imprisoned.  Dale and Josh and Jennifer, all dead in a vain effort to defend the castle and give the family time to flee through the underground passage.  Matt, who’d been briefly in the dungeons before being delivered to AJ’s torture chamber for some unknown purpose.  Joey had carried his body out himself, had seen the damage AJ’s machines and apparatuses had inflicted.  JC’s face had been wet by the end of Joey’s recitation, although his steady jogging pace never faltered.  
  
Joey had groped for some hopeful news.  He had heard rumors that Tony and Keri had been seen escaping out of one of the auxiliary southwest gates, and a woman in the produce market had sworn that her sister had seen them the following day, passing her farm in the west and riding hard.  JC had smiled at that and it was the smile that Joey remembered from his boyhood, simple and uncomplicated and with no sharp and bitter edges.  
  
He looked at JC now, laying out his bedroll neatly against the far wall, his movements precise and economical. Except for the rare smile, this JC bore very little resemblance to the JC he remembered from the Yard schools.  As teenagers they had shared a study hall for several years prior to becoming Undermasters.  JC had always been quiet, working hard as a student both in and out of the Yard proper, taking the book studies very seriously.  More serious than most, Joey remembered.  He’d been less prone to blowing off steam in the lower steppe than the others, usually staying back to study, to get in extra practice time in the Yards.  JC had been a nice guy, easygoing, friendly, and though he’d held himself to a very hard line when it came to rules and conventions, he had never imposed his own rigid standards on anyone else.  
  
Joey found it hard to reconcile that boy with the man before him now.  The man who, if appearances were anything to go by, had broken the most serious rule of all.  
  
Kelly’s cousin had been shocked and overjoyed to see Joey.  He told him that they’d been certain he and Kelly and Briahna had perished in the invasion, and Joey’s heart had plummeted when he realized that Kelly’s family had no news of her whereabouts, were, in fact, hoping for the same from him.  Her cousin’s face had fallen tragically when Joey told him, haltingly, that Kelly had not been seen since the day of the invasion, but that he sometimes worked in the palace and had hopes of finding her still.  But he had recovered quickly, welcoming Joey and JC warmly and exchanging family and neighborhood news over a very late meal.  He’d heard of JC’s parents, had had dealings with JC’s father years ago and remembered that right after the invasion they had been searching for reports of whether or not their oldest son had survived.  He promised to send a note with one of his sons to an uncle in the east who traded regularly with the Chasez family.  If JC’s family were still on their farm they would know by the next week that he had survived.  
  
It was explosively hot in the loft above Kelly’s cousin’s cow barn, but here in the tiny hidden room behind the hay bales there were small vent holes that caught something of a cross-breeze, allowing a welcome cooling.  Joey slid into a deep forward stance, feeling his thigh muscles protest the long jog they’d done today.  He flexed them, sighing as he forced them to loosen.  He was going to be stiff in the morning.  
  
Across the small room JC was performing similar stretches, his forehead creased in concentration.  “Maybe we could cut through the market village on our way tomorrow,” he said, raising his hands slowly over his head.  Joey heard his back crack as he stretched toward the low ceiling.  “It wouldn’t be too much out of our way, and we’d have to wait until dark to get back in anyway, right?”  
  
Joey considered the small market village an hour’s jog to the north east, and wondered if it was worth the effort.  Kelly’s cousin had said that they rarely saw members of the Richardson guard out here, in fact, hadn’t seen any strangers at all, even normal travelers, in several weeks.  The farmers were wary of the Richardsons, and anxious when they had to travel within the City walls to the central produce market, but there was a subtle difference in attitude here.  The farmers missed the fairness of the previous ruler, and were bitterly resentful of the Richardsons’ extortion and thievery, but on the whole the new regime didn’t have the same impact here as it did for the City dwellers.  
  
“We could,” Joey answered slowly.  “If you’re thinking you want to get closer to your parents’ farm, see if you can get some more recent news, that would be a good way to go.  We’d have to wait another night to return, though.”  He watched JC carefully.  “Or, are you thinking that you’ll just keep going?  Not go back to the City at all?”  
  
JC froze in mid stretch.  There was a silence that stretched like a rubber band, quivering with tension.  
  
“Joey, I have no intention of doing anything other than finding out about my parents, and returning to the City,” JC said, slowly.  “It’s been my home too, for almost as long as I can remember.  It’s far more my home than my father’s farm ever was.”  
  
Joey’s eyes were steady on his.  “Plus, there’s Justin,” he said evenly, and watched as JC nodded, his chin lifting and his eyes cold.  
  
“And there’s Justin,” he agreed shortly, and turned his back.  There was another silence.  
  
“You know, I remember Justin, now that I’ve seen him,” Joey said, smiled a little when JC looked up warily.  “I mean, I always knew who he was, everyone did, but I remember now that he used to come to the Yard all the time, and watch.”  He waited for a moment, but other than a curt nod, JC didn’t respond.  
  
“I always wondered why he didn’t take class, as much time as he spent outside the walls, watching,” he added, very casually.  
  
JC sat on his bedroll and stretched his legs out, pointing and flexing his toes.  “He was never my student, Joey” he said, voice slightly muffled as he stretched his upper body down and grasped his ankles.   “He was never anyone’s student,” he added, and this time there was no mistaking the defensiveness in his tone.  
  
Joey sighed.  “JC.”  He stopped, took a breath and started again.  “Hey, JC, I’m not trying to start anything here.  But I know you taught him things while you were in the dungeon, it’s obvious that he’s been trained.”  He watched carefully, but JC continued to stretch, his hands now wrapped firmly around the ball of each foot, his face resting easily on his knees.  “JC.  He’s had training.  By you.”  
  
“Yeah?”  JC sat up suddenly, his tone exasperated.  “And?  What’s your point, Joey?”  He turned to face him, gesturing wildly.  “I’m a teacher.  He asked to be taught, and he knew almost nothing, Joey.  He had no idea how to defend himself, and where we were . . .  I mean, they could’ve come for him at any time.  I couldn’t refuse to teach him; you know it’s against the code to refuse to teach anyone who wants to learn.”  
  
Joey kept his voice low and steady.  “Of course you had to teach him.  It was the best, the smartest thing you could do.  But other things are against the code too, JC.”  He saw JC flinch, and waited.  
  
JC sighed, and leaned back wearily against the wall.  He suddenly seemed like the boy Joey had once known, his face serious, tired as he rubbed wearily at his forehead.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” he said finally, softly.  “And yeah, you’re right.  And I won’t say that it doesn’t bother me, the way it all started, but it’s . . . there’s just too much now, between Justin and me.”  
  
“But JC,” Joey persisted.  “C.  If things were different, if things were the way they used to be, you know I’d have to report you for it.  I mean, the rules are the way they are for a reason.”  He paused, breathing hard, struggling to put his apprehension into words.  “It’s just, how can you throw away a code that you’ve respected for a whole lifetime?  He’s a Timberlake..  And you, you’re his Yard master!  And now.  Now he’s someone without a family.  He has no one to stand for him, JC.”  
  
Night was falling and Joey could hardly make out JC’s form against the far wall, but the blue of his eyes seemed to glow, to suck all the color from the dim grayness of the small room.  “It’s not easy, Joey.  It’s never been easy.”  He took a deep breath.  “And Justin’s family is dead, but he isn’t alone.  He’ll never be alone.  He has me.”  
  
Joey digested that, silently as the night fell completely.  “So it’s like that,” he said finally, his voice quiet.  
  
JC’s voice drifted, formless across the darkness.  “Yeah.  It’s like that.  And things will never be the way they were before the Richardsons,” he said, his voice weary.  “You can wish to go back, for things to be the way they were, but this world will never, ever be the same.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	24. Twenty-three

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-three  
 _  
Come from the dying moon . . .  
While my pretty one, sleeps._  
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Princess  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Justin had been silent and morose since Joey and JC had left, watching Chris warily from the corner of his eyes.  Chris figured he knew why, but he thought he’d let the kid stew for a bit, see if he had the guts to speak up and say what was on his mind.  But Justin was like a perfectly polite house guest, never saying anything but please and thank you, and on their way to the Yard that night Chris finally lost patience.  
  
“So, Justin,” he started, keeping his voice low in deference to the sleeping neighborhood on the other side of the hedges.  “So, more than two years in that dungeon, huh?”  
  
Justin slid one of those slow sideways glances at him, the moon throwing the bones in his face into sharp relief.  His “yeaahhh . . .” was wary.  
  
Chris smiled.  He remembered teasing a much younger Justin outside the walls of the royal Yard on a boiling hot summer day.  “What brings you here again,” he had asked, grinning as Justin had blushed.  “C’mon, tell me.  Point her out.  Which one is she?  Because there has to be more to this than a simple and wholesome love of the Yard . . .”  
  
This wasn’t a whole lot different.  “So,” Chris started again, cheerfully.  “I’m thinking, you’re eighteen, you’ve been cooped up in a dungeon with the most boring man alive for your hormonally charged formative years, and you must be frantic to, uh, blow off some steam.”  He watched Justin twitch a little out of the corner of his eye, turning to look at him sharply, and stared innocently straight ahead.  
  
“Boring?” Justin asked, incredulous.  “You think JC is boring?”  
  
Chris arched an expressive eyebrow.  “Don’t you?”  Justin ducked his head, blushing, and refused to answer.  Chris could see the private grin, and stifled a snort.  
  
“Seriously,” Chris continued, reaching over to clap Justin comfortingly on the shoulder.  “You poor boy,” he crooned sympathetically.  “You must be ready to burst right out of your adolescent skin.  It seems like we should be able to find a nice girl to, uh, take care of things for you.  You want me to see what I can do about that?”  
  
Justin choked a little bit and seemed to be groping for something to say.  Chris watched in amusement as he cleared his throat, shifted his Yard gear bundle from one arm to the other, scratched his forehead, and opened and closed his mouth four times.  
  
“Unless,” Chris said shrewdly, “you already have that taken care of.”  He grinned as Justin groaned.  
  
“I’m, um.  Chris, you know, it’s not like I’m a virgin or anything,” he finally said, and Chris thought he could practically feel the heat coming off Justin’s face.  
  
“Really?  No, really Justin?  Because the noises I hear early in the morning, coming from the attic, those wouldn’t be any sort of a clue.  Or, the fact that the bed up in Joey’s attic looks very well used, and the bedroll on the floor has never even been _opened_.  I believe it actually has dust on it.”  
  
“There are no noises!”  
  
Chris laughed.  “Not from you two, maybe.  The furniture, that’s a different story.”  
  
They’d reached the gate now, and Justin couldn’t even look at him.  Chris finally took pity on him.  
  
“Hey, Justin.  If you’re wondering whether I’m going to chew you out for sexing up your Yard instructor, the answer to that is no.”  Chris kept his voice soft, amused, and he would’ve enjoyed the way Justin shuffled his feet and stared hard at them if he didn’t seem to be taking it so seriously.  “I don’t care so much, not like those uptight code-aholic assholes from the upper steppe.”    
  
Justin exhaled something between a cough and a gasp and a laugh, and Chris continued, smiling.  “It’s not like you’re gonna be making out with him the Yard, right?  What goes on between you and JC in the privacy of Joey’s attic is your own business, I figure, but you know, not everyone is going to agree with me on that.”  
  
Justin sighed, but kept his eyes on his sandaled feet.  “Like Joey,” he murmured, and Chris nodded.  
  
“Don’t worry about Joey.  You have to know, see, the thing about Joey is that a big part of him is still stuck in the past.  In the life he had, before the invasion.  There are parts of Joey that don’t quite accept the fact that things are different, now.”  He kept his voice even, casual almost, and was relieved to see Justin nod thoughtfully.  
  
“The thing is, um, JC?  He kinda feels that way too, the way Joey does.”  Justin’s voice was somber.  “Like, what we do isn’t really right.  It bothers him.”  
  
Chris turned and looked at him.  “Justin, you have to realize that Joey and JC were practically raised in the royal Yard and its schools.  The code for the Undermasters and Masters is taken very seriously there, and there are good reasons for it to be that way.  Now, wait,” he held up a hand as Justin started to object.  “I’m not saying it’s right, wrong or indifferent, Justin, I’m just telling you how it is.”  
  
Justin sighed, toeing off his sandals and setting his bundle of Yard gear on the ground next to them.  “So, how come it’s not a big deal to you?” he asked, quietly.  
  
Chris knelt down beside him and started sorting through the bag.  “I wasn’t raised in these Yards,” he said simply.  “We didn’t come to the City until I was older, and where we came from, codes like that weren’t such a huge deal.”  
  
Justin’s fingers, busily wrapping the wooden edge of a light practice sword with cloth to muffle the sound, stilled.  “I didn’t know that,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice that made Chris look at him sharply.  “I didn’t know, I thought you were from here.”  His eyes met Chris’s, and there was no mistaking the eager light in them.  “Where, are you from far away?  What’s it like?  Why did you come here?”  
  
“You knew that, Justin.  I told you that,” he said, and Justin waved his hand dismissively  
  
“Yeah, but it didn’t matter to me then, you coming from far away,” Justin answered, and Chris felt a small jolt of alarm.  
  
Chris squinted up at the position of the moon.  He was running short on Yard time if he still wanted to make his fishing boat departure.  Justin was looking at his face avidly, hungry for information, and Chris sighed.  
  
“Well, why do you want to know?” he asked shortly.  “I mean, what does it matter to you?”  
  
Justin shrugged, elaborately casual.  “I always wondered what it was like, in other places,” he said evasively.  “I was never allowed to travel very far, and I was always curious.  I figured things had to be different far away.  Maybe better.”  He shrugged again, his eyes on his feet again.  “That’s one of the reasons why I wanted to go with JC so much,” he admitted.  
  
Chris sighed.  “Well, my mother is from a small City up north,” he started, reaching down to buckle his shin guards in place.  “But it’s not a better place.  It’s colder, nasty cold, not like here.  There’s snow, and famine in the winter, and people are poor.  And the Yards are only for those who are rich enough to pay for it.”  
  
Justin gasped indignantly, and Chris nodded.  “But,” Justin started, his brow wrinkling.  “I heard that there were places up north, way up north, where there were no Cities with walls.  Places where people didn’t need walls, where you could go where you pleased, stay where you wanted . . .”  
  
Chris laughed a little.  “I heard about those places too, when I was a kid,” he said wryly, “but where I grew up, they were far to the east.”  
  
He looked down, checking Justin’s progress on the sword wrapping.  His own needed to be tied tighter.  Chris reached for another tie wrap before he continued.  “We moved around a lot when I was a kid, looking for someplace better.  A place where people treated each other with respect, helped each other out, where every day wasn’t just a struggle to survive.  And Justin,” Chris paused, waiting until he had Justin’s undivided attention.  “We found that, right here in this City.  With the Timberlakes.”  
  
He waited for it, and saw it.  The warmth in Justin’s eyes, the pride as he raised his head and looked around, seeing not just the little secluded neighborhood Yard but the whole City as Chris had seen it the first time, like a haven in a scary world.  A home.  He watched carefully as Justin raised his eyes to the Walls, rising just above the barrier of the hedgerow, bleak and dark against the night sky.  He saw Justin’s face darken, and nodded when the boy looked back to him.  
  
“That’s why,” he said simply, and Justin nodded, thoughtfully.  
  
“Now, let’s get some work done, huh?”  Chris rose to his feet, extended a hand down to pull Justin to his.  “I’ve got to get to work in an hour or so.”  
  
Justin rose to his feet, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as they made their bows and entered the neatly painted red gate.  
  
“So, what was the other reason?”  Chris asked, as they both started to stretch.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You said it was one of the reasons you wanted to go,” he reminded Justin.  “To see other places.  What was the other?”  
  
Justin’s teeth flashed in the illumination of the moon and reflection of the white stone half walls, and he looked away as if embarrassed.  “JC,” he said simply.  
  
Chris laughed a little as they squared off and Justin prepared to attack.  “What, you didn’t get enough quality JC time in your cell?” he quipped, and was rewarded when Justin laughed a little.  
  
“I just,” Justin hesitated as Chris lunged and he carefully deflected.  “I feel better when he’s here,” he said quietly.  And Chris couldn’t laugh at that at all.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	25. Twenty-Four

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-four  
  
 _Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon_  
William Shakespeare, Hamlet  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It was almost dawn when Joey and JC returned to the City, hours and hours and hours past the time they’d promised to be back.  They’d been lucky to get the same guard at the northeast gate that they’d bribed on their way out.  He seemed faintly surprised that they were back, trying to get into the City this time, but once he saw their money his curiosity disappeared.  He waved them through with just a cursory glance, and once out of his sight JC dropped behind Joey to follow him through the labyrinthian maze that made up the alleys of the lower steppe.  
  
The short side trip to the market village north of Kelly’s cousin’s farm had put them more than half a day behind schedule and had yielded no information other than the fact that Richardson guards hadn’t been seen in the market place in almost six months.  It was valuable news, proof that the Richardsons were already turning their attention away from the outlying areas.  But questions about JC’s family revealed that the Chasez farm had been abandoned, and nobody at the market or the small pub had any recent news about their whereabouts.  
  
This had sobered him.  It caused him actual physical pain to think of how long it had been since he’d seen his parents.  He cursed his reluctance to visit home in the years before the invasion, when it had seemed that they would always be there, when his selfish preoccupation with his own life and his own concerns had made him reluctant to make the trip to the farm even during holidays and festivals.  Endlessly looping speculations about where they had gone, if they were even alive, consumed him. He was silent as they jogged steadily back toward the City.  
  
Joey had treated him with a polite sort of distance after their conversation the previous night, but the news about JC’s family had softened him.  He called for a rest just as the moon rose over the horizon, and although JC protested that he was fine, that they should hurry back, Joey insisted that they stop, eat, catch their breath before the final push to the City.    
  
He was right.  They were both exhausted, but JC was sharply aware that they were late, very, very late, and he was concerned about Justin.  He realized he’d felt slightly uneasy ever since they’d left the City early the previous morning, and hoped it was the understandable disquiet that came from being separated from someone he’d spent the last few years in constant company with, and not any sort of precognition.  
  
Joey had handed him the trail mix and jerky and he’d chewed methodically, needing to fuel his body.  Joey broke the silence by clearing his throat, and JC tensed for another confrontation.  
  
“I’m sorry about your family, JC,” he said, and the eyes he turned to him were rich with sympathy.  
  
JC chewed and swallowed carefully around the sudden lump in his throat before attempting to answer.  “I feel like such a shit,” he said.  “I should’ve visited them more, I should’ve made time.”  He sighed rubbing his hand across his forehead.  “I can’t remember the last time I told my mother that I loved her.  Always so busy, doing my own thing.”  
  
“Yeah, I understand,” Joey said quietly, and JC knew he did.  It was etched in every line in his face.  “When this is over,” Joey said, his free hand indicating the walled City in the distance, “When this is over hopefully we’ll all be able to find what we’re looking for.  I mean, we’re all missing people, you know?”  
  
JC nodded silently.  
  
“So, you’re right,” Joey started, and the eyes he turned to JC were sympathetic.  “Everything has changed, and really, nothing will ever be the way it was.”  
  
They finished the meal in a silence more comfortable than any they’d shared since the previous evening’s near confrontation, and when they were done JC got to his feet, facing resolutely forward.  
  
He was startled at his own relief when he recognized the tiny alley and the hedges that hid the back of Joey’s little house.  They let themselves in silently, not wanting to wake any sleeping occupants, and they both jumped a little when a match flared and a small candle was lit on the counter in the kitchen.  
  
Justin looked like had been waiting all night, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with sleep, but his smile was bright as he greeted them in a whisper, pointing down the hall to indicate that Chris and his mother were asleep.  He helped Joey with his pack, carefully not looking at JC, and JC drank in the sight of him like a thirsty man too long denied water.  
  
Joey moved down the hall to his room, whispering that he’d see them in a few hours, and Justin blew out the tiny candle light before turning to JC in the silent and dim kitchen.  
  
“You came back,” he said simply, his hands reaching out almost helplessly.  “You’re back, you came back.”  
  
“You thought I wouldn’t?”  JC’s voice was trying for amused, but his hands were rough and uncoordinated against the back of Justin’s neck.  “Why?”  
  
“I thought, your family, or up north, out of this City,” Justin’s voice was barely audible, his face burrowing deeper into the side of JC’s neck.  “There’s so much out there, you could go anywhere . . .”  
  
JC smiled, the niggling tension that had plagued him since he’d left Justin early the previous morning gone.  “But what I want is right here,” he said simply, and felt Justin sigh in his arms.  “Justin,” he said, hoarse around the lump in his throat, “you didn’t really think I’d leave you here, did you?”  
  
Justin burrowed closer, breathing quickly.  “No,” he whispered.  “No, not really.  I just, I missed you.”  He pulled back and little, his smile shaky in the dim light.  “Missed you.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	26. Twenty-Five

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-five  
  
 _As soon as the evening shades prevail,  
The moon takes up the wondrous tale . . ._  
Joseph Addison, Ode  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It had been a very long night on the boat, a bumper crop of swordfish necessitating both leaving early and staying out later than usual, and Chris should’ve been completely wiped out.  Even a month ago such a work shift would have made him stagger with exhaustion, longing only for his comfortable mattress in Joey’s house and the oblivion that sleep would bring.  But tonight his steps were lighter than they’d been in years, and he didn’t feel tired at all.  
  
The sun had been barely peeking over the eastern horizon when the ship docked.  It was still dark in the lower steppe, but full daylight would be coming soon.  He was too late to work out with Justin and JC and Joey, and he cursed the extra work even though it actually meant there would be some extra money this week.  Yard workouts, always a joy to him, had turned into something special.  
  
Chris remembered Justin’s boyhood interest in the Yard, and was pleased to find that he had not wasted the years he’d been imprisoned, and that JC had trained him superbly.  Joey had started working weapons with him, and Justin was picking it up with an eagerness that made Joey smile genuine, pre-invasion smiles.  There was something special when the four of them worked together, a symmetry that seemed to come almost without effort.  Others working in the Yard seemed to feel it too, stopping their own workouts to watch Chris and Joey and JC and Justin when they practiced their katas.  There was a quickening of purpose amongst the Yard workers, a sharpening interest in the arts of war, and Chris knew it was just a matter of time.  
  
The street narrowed, twisting and dropping lower until the densely packed clay became damp and soggy.  He was approaching what had been termed home for the past two years now, two years since he’d returned from his travels to find his family in shambles, his home City under an oppressive rule, the ruling family he’d loved and respected dead.  Chris could hear the muffled rhythmic thumping of the weapons when he turned the corner and passed the house he shared with his mother, his old friend Joey and one gigantic secret.  
  
Chris cursed under his breath and quickened his pace, thinking of the eyes that had watched their middle of the night workout the previous night.  It was a secret that was becoming less secret every day.  
  
He rounded the corner of the alley and dove behind the long, dark row of shabby houses, his sandals squelching thickly in the moist ground.  He hurried behind the high, neglected hedge, around a corner and down another narrow twisting alley to the almost-hidden Yard.  
  
Chris rounded the final hidden corner and stopped.  From his vantage point he could see the whole of the Yard, from the neatly painted gate to the unused weapons shed.  There were perhaps twenty people leaning against the stone half-wall that the entire neighborhood now kept carefully clean of ivy, watching the activity inside.  In the center of the packed ground were Justin and JC, moving furiously, diving at each other, lunging, spinning.  Chris could see JC’s white teeth as he grinned at Justin, motioning him to come on, to attack.  Justin frowned in concentration as he dived at him with a short sword, its blade covered in thick, muffling cloth.  He was fast but JC dodged and parried and turned, throwing him easily, effortlessly keeping two paces ahead of Justin’s pace, lunging at him when his tired steps slowed.  
  
JC halted the form with a hand in the air, and the watching crowd of people -- all from the neighborhood, all of them known, Chris saw -- drew closer to listen.  JC’s hands moved as he talked quietly, explaining the demonstration for both the onlookers and for Justin, who watched with wide eyes even as he fought to catch his breath.  They both wore training clothes, neat and simple cotton shirts and drawstring pants that reminded Chris forcefully of his own mid-level training days in the royal Yards, a far cry from this tiny Yard tucked in the darkest part of the lower steppe, where they were forced to hide.  
  
Head cocked to one side, hands on his hips, Justin was watching as the onlookers took up positions and began to practice.  He had continued to grow in the few months he’d been hidden in Joey’s attic, was taller and almost as broad-shouldered as Joey or any of the former guards amongst the motley group of neighborhood Yard workers.  Joey had shorn Justin's hair as they had left the dungeons, and for a long while he had refused to let it grow.  But right now, there were light brown curls on his head and they, along with his light blue eyes, forcefully reminded Chris of Justin's mother, who had once been so kind to his own.  He saw one of the men entering the Yard pause and bow respectfully to him, saw Justin freeze and look quickly  away, his face flushing and his eyes searching for JC.  Chris cursed quietly.  
  
JC was leaning against the wall and drying his face off, smiling at Chris as he approached.  “Good practice,” he said quietly, moving through the gate to join Chris outside.  
  
“I’m sure,” Chris said tightly.  “And it’s quite the crowd you’ve drawn here, JC.”  
  
Perplexed, JC blinked, his brows knitting at Chris’s tone.  “Chris,” he said, faintly scandalized.  “You know we didn’t _invite_ them, right?”  
  
“I know that there shouldn’t be this many people here watching, JC.  I know that Justin needs to be careful about who sees him.  I know we all agreed that we needed to wait, that the time has to be right.”  He glared at JC and struggled to keep his voice quiet.  “I know that we agreed that the two of you would be more careful.”  
  
JC’s smile faded, and he stood up straighter as his eyes grew cold.  “We didn’t invite them, Chris.  You know the Yard rules.  They have just as much reason -- and right -- to be here as I do.  As you do.”  
  
“But it’s too soon!” Chris hissed, mindful even now of the importance of the silence.  “What are you doing, letting him out here with all these people?  What will we do if the Richardsons hear that the Timberlake boy is alive?  If they come looking for him?”  
  
JC wiped his face with the back of his arm and sighed, eyeing Chris gravely.  “He can’t stay in that attic forever, Chris.  And I’m not going to tell Justin that he can’t do Yard work.  It’s all he has, it’s all he’s had for years now.”  
  
 _He has us_ , Chris thought.  He looked JC, his long, lean form, his blue eyes, the long slender fingers as he folded and refolded his towel.  _He has you_.  He looked away and said neither of these things.  
  
“Chris.  He needs it,” JC continued.  “Maybe there will be more.  I think he’ll take to teaching and I think people will follow him, but he has to have the opportunity to catch up, learn what I couldn’t teach him in the dungeon, you know?”  
  
Chris did not respond, and JC sighed again, more impatient.  “Look, we were here long before first light, we would’ve been gone before anybody showed up, but,” he gestured toward the Yard, full of people although dawn was not yet breaking.  “They all showed up early too.”  
  
Chris shook his head, still worried, and JC continued, his voice quiet.  “Chris.  You know as well as I do that the people are ready to know he’s here.”  He blinked and looked back at Justin, looking worried and tired for the first time.  “They’re ready for something to happen.  More than ready.  What we have to worry about is whether or not Justin is ready to lead them.”  He turned back to Chris again, and his eyes were concerned.  “What you have planned . . .”  
  
“What _we_ have planned.”  
  
“Yes.  The plan.  It’s a big burden for a boy his age.  And he’s been through a lot, Chris.  More than anyone his age should have to go through.”  JC wiped his face again, and when he looked up his eyes searched for Justin, and Chris followed his gaze.    
  
Justin was leaning against the wall of the Yard beside the gate, his face towards the people sparring the Yard, but his eyes intent on JC.  He smiled suddenly when he saw JC looking across the Yard at him, all teeth and smooth skin and sparkling blue eyes, young and vibrant.  He looked so young, for a moment, and Chris was forcibly reminded that Justin was barely older than his younger sister.  JC smiled back, the sharp lines of his face softening, and he nodded to him as Justin picked up their swords and slipped on his sandals, moving down the little lane that led to Joey’s house.  Justin sketched a little wave at Chris as he rounded the corner and Chris waved back at him.  
  
He turned to JC with a sigh.  “He’s all they have, you know.  He’s all we have.  It’s either this or taking our chances over the wall in the dead of night.”  He paused, fighting to put into words the fury, the sense of outrage and wrongness that leeched his soul every waking hour.  “This, the way things are, it’s not the way it’s supposed to be.  And nobody knows that more than Justin.”  
  
JC’s eyes were very dark.  “I’m not saying that this City isn’t an awful place to be now, Chris, or that any of us don’t wish things were the way they used to be.  And I’m not saying that Justin won’t be able to do what you want done.”  He sighed, impatiently, and looked over his shoulder at the corner Justin had disappeared around, pulling on his sandals.  “But really, things aren’t ever going to be the way they were.  Too much has changed.”  
  
“They’ll be better,” Chris insisted.  
  
“Yeah, maybe.”  JC slanted a sideways glance at him, his face unreadable.  “Justin, you know, he’d been confined, one way or another, for a long time.”  
  
Chris looked up at the castle on the hill, thinking of the dank dungeons deep in the rock below, and he nodded.  But when he glanced back, JC had his head tilted up, looking at the high, dark City walls, and his expression was bleak.  
  
 “I’m just wondering what the best thing is for him, Chris.  Because I think I’m the only one who does that.  And someone has to.”  
  
Chris was silent as JC moved away, because he knew there were things that JC knew about Justin that none of the rest of them would ever know.  And because he knew JC was right.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	27. Twenty-six

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-six  
  
 _And they danced by the light of the moon . . ._  
Edward Lear, The Owl and the Pussycat  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The alley door to the little stone house was bolted from the inside, as usual, and Justin knocked the code carefully, keeping his head down and waiting for agonizingly slow moments in the gradually lightening dawn for Chris’s mother to peer through the tiny peephole and undo the series of heavy metal bolts.  She motioned him inside quickly inside the barely-opened door, her eyes darting fearfully past him.  He breathed a sigh of relief as he slid inside.  Even after all these months, he didn’t really feel safe anywhere except the Yard and this little house, especially when the sun was on its way over the wall.  
  
Justin gave Beverly one of his best smiles, kissing her quickly on the cheek and telling her that Chris was right behind him, had only stopped at the Yard for a moment.  He was rewarded by seeing the ever-present fright and tension in her eyes recede a little.  He relaxed a bit as she smiled at him, patted his arm, even blushed a little.  The best mornings were when Chris’s mother was almost normal, bustling around the kitchen and scolding JC for not eating enough, Joey for drinking too much, Chris for working too hard.  She would rub an affectionate hand over Justin’s short hair and make jokes about growing boys eating them out of house and home even as she piled more food on his plate.  Those mornings were rare, to be treasured.  They reminded him vividly of happier times.  
  
This morning was not one of those.  Almost immediately Beverly returned to peer between the curtains on the front window, watching the City slowly wake up as the light grew stronger.  She wouldn’t relax until Chris came home, Justin knew, and there was no talking to her about it.  
  
There was a small mound of fresh peaches on a chipped metal plate on the kitchen counter, and he picked one up.  The smell made his mouth water and his stomach groan.  He sank his teeth deeply into it, loving the feel of the fuzz on his tongue.  It was perfect, ripe and sweet, and there was a whole plate of them, more than enough for them all.  He ate slowly, hovering by the back door and waiting for the quiet tap, letting Chris and JC in just moments later.  
  
He’d thought they were having some sort of argument at the Yard, but there was no sign of that now.  Chris smiled at him and slapped his shoulder but went immediately to the front window to coax his mother away, his voice patient and kind and loving just as it always was when he spoke to her.  Justin watched them, and when he felt JC’s eyes on him he took another bite, slowly and deliberately.  A thin line of juice dripped slowly down his chin.  
  
“Want some?”  He held the peach out to JC, his tone quiet and as inviting as he could make it.  
  
“Um, yeah.”  JC’s smile widened, his eyes warm.  “Just a bite.”  He stepped closer, his long and elegant fingers wrapping around Justin’s bigger wrist and pulling the peach toward his mouth.  He bit deeply into it, his tongue lapping at the juice.  His eyes didn’t leave Justin’s, and Justin swallowed, hard.  
  
JC’s fingers were still wrapped around Justin’s wrist, and he gently pushed the peach back toward his mouth.  “Last bite for you” he said, his voice low and a little rough, and Justin opened his mouth and took the final bite blindly.  JC plucked the fringed peach pit from his nerveless fingers and tossed it toward the trash behind Justin.  When he turned back to him Justin opened his arms, wordlessly, needily, and JC stepped into them.  His cream colored shirt was patchy with sweat, his body hot and scented with sweat and dust.  Justin breathed deep, closing his eyes and rubbing his cheek a little against the top of JC’s shoulder, feeling the strong muscles thrum a little with tension.  
  
“Good practice?” he asked, and felt JC nod against his shoulder.  “Tired?” he whispered, and JC nodded again.  Gently, Justin reached up to stroke the back of JC’s neck, feeling him sag a little in his arms.  
  
It was full daylight now, the sounds from the street louder as more people left their houses and started their day.  Justin took JC’s hand and coaxed him down the hallway, nodding to Chris as he pulled down the narrow wooden stairs that led to the small dusty attic they hid in during the day.  There were vent holes at the ceiling’s edges that just caught the growing sunlight, lighting the room in a feathery dusk.  He heard JC close the trap door quietly behind them and turned to face him, his body already eager, and saw JC’s smile as he followed him toward the small feather-quilted bed.  
  
“Bath first?” JC said innocently, and Justin shook his head in a furious negative.  “Okay, maybe later.”  He was laughing a little, and Justin didn’t care.  
  
JC stripped efficiently and stretched out on the bed, waiting for Justin to join him.  Justin slid out of his clothes more slowly, loving the smoothly oiled feel of the muscles coiling under his skin, the Yard tiredness under the pull of anticipation.  He glanced covertly at JC as he pulled his shirt over his head, feeling his belly pull taut and his biceps flex, and saw JC’s grin as he caught Justin looking.  “I’m getting sleepy,” JC warned softly, laughter in his voice, and Justin dropped the pretense and hastily kicked the rest of his clothing off, moving quickly to the bed and JC’s waiting arms.  
  
They rolled together, half wrestling and half loving, and carefully quiet as they always had been, curling effortlessly into a lovers’ knot.  Justin felt his skin flush with heat as their hands stroked and teased each other into shuddering pleasure, feeling his heart pound as he gasped silently, his own head pillowed on JC’s warm thigh.  One of his hands traced over JC’s lean hip and curved along the shallow ridge of muscle, feeling the pulse there jump and leap, mirroring his own as it pounded hard before fading.  He sighed with tiredness and contentment, running his tongue over his lips, tasting JC.  
  
JC’s hands reached for him, his eyes brilliant in the airy half light.  “You.  C’mere.”  
  
Justin pulled himself up until he lay close beside him, wiggling a little as JC pulled the light sheet over their sweat-cooled bodies.  He loved this, the way they fit together, forehead to forehead, their hands and legs entwined.  Justin sighed contentedly, arching his long body, bringing his hips against JC’s.  Their lips met lazily, then their tongues.  
  
JC’s eyes were already blinking closed, his face peaceful, his mouth relaxed.  Justin watched for as long as he could before closing his own eyes.  He pushed away the thoughts of the other people in the Yard, the ones whose eyes had studied him, who’d bowed to him.  He pushed the weight of their silent expectations from his mind as he curled closer to JC and thought that he’d never been happier, ever.  
  
He dreamed of a bright golden plain stretching to infinity and blurring only at the far-off place where it met the clear blue sky.  The sun was glaringly bright but he wasn’t afraid, and he seemed to be floating, carried along smoothly, steadily north.  The sky was a clear blue and the sun was blissfully warm and the man beside him was smiling at him, and he didn’t care if he ever reached their destination because he was finally free, and the journey was the most perfect peace he’d ever felt.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	28. Twenty-Seven

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-seven  
  
 _I’m being followed by a moon shadow . . ._  
Cat Stevens  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Was it the same man?  Joey thought so, but that could be his own paranoia talking.  He could be imagining it.  
  
Strangers didn’t come often to the pubs in the lower steppe.  Traders from outside stayed in the middle steppe, where the lodgings were more plentiful and gathering places generally safer.  Those that intended mischief or were looking for trouble kept to the rough bars closest to the lower steppe’s main gates.  This pub was off the main avenue and catered mostly to the local neighborhood, working people who just wanted to unwind for an hour at the end of a long day.  Joey had been coming here since he was a teenager, and between him and Chris there was nobody in the pub that they didn’t know, at least on a nodding acquaintance.  But this man was a stranger.  
  
Joey took a meager sip from his tankard, watching the man carefully as the activity of the busy pub swirled around him.  On first glance there wasn’t anything that stood out about him.  He was young, with dirty blond hair, clean if somewhat wrinkled clothing, unlined and unscarred skin. He wasn’t dressed any differently from most of the men in the bar, although his cotton shirt seemed to be a finer weave than most, and fit his broad shoulders precisely.  He was clean, if a little rumpled.  Joey turned a little sideways in his seat so he could watch the door and study the stranger a little more closely.  Something wasn’t right.  
  
Joey could be patient.  He pretended an interest in the dice game going on at the next table, responded good naturedly to a casual insult from an acquaintance, and took another long pull from his weak beer.  He kept one eye on the door, waiting for Chris.  
  
When noise erupted from the boisterous game of darts in the corner Joey used it as an opportunity to turn his head and study the man more closely.  The stranger was on the opposite side of the pub, sitting alone by the far wall in a dim corner.  He seemed just another tired working man, slumping a little at the small, rough wooden table, leaning on his elbows as he curled his hands around his tankard.  But Joey noticed that the man kept his eyes on the table in front of him, sitting quietly and seemingly not paying much attention to the noisy activity around him.  If he’d been waiting for someone, Joey thought, he’d be looking around, watching the door.  But he seemed content to just sit quietly alone.  Joey’s frown deepened.  
  
One of the dart players cast a quick eye about and, seeing no Richardson guards, began to tell a story about a farmer who’d been shaken down at the east gate that morning.  Joey listened with half an ear.  The farmer had not had the proper bribes, or perhaps the Richardson gate chief had been in a particularly foul mood, but his goods had been taken, his wagon ransacked and confiscated, and his teenaged son taken to the dungeon until the farmer could come up with what the gate guards had termed “the proper gate fees.”  Unfortunately, this was not an unusual story.  Joey had heard similar, and worse, stories and seen such things happen himself a dozen times since the Richardsons had taken the City.  What was different, and new, were the dark, almost menacing mutterings from the people listening.  Two years ago, with shock from the invasion and fear still running high, such a story would’ve been told in a whisper, or not told at all.  Nobody had wanted to bring attention to themselves, to invite a visit from the new royal guard.  
  
But now things were different.  The mood of the populace had changed, subtly and slowly.  As the Richardson brothers had relaxed into confidence, their guards had become lazy.  The story of the farmer at the gate said more about the gate guards’ boredom than anything else, and the mood of the people was becoming less fearful and more resentful.  Joey held his breath, feeling a curl of excitement deep in his stomach.  Soon.  
  
He glanced back at the blond stranger still sitting quietly against the far wall.  The man had frozen, his eyes still down but he was obviously listening, and listening intently.  As the story was finished and the mutterings died down he raised the tankard to his mouth and took a sip, his prominent adam’s apple bobbing easily as he drank.  When he lowered it his eyes met Joey’s across the crowded room.  
  
Joey had a confusing impression of slanted, wary green eyes and a sharp boned face that seemed oddly foreign before the man stood, setting down his half full tankard and dropping a coin on the table before striding directly to the exit.  Joey watched, alert.  The man was not rushing, did not seem to be in a hurry, but he avoided meeting Joey’s eyes again.  Joey felt tension curl into his gut, bringing him to his feet as he noted the man’s cloak held an empty pocket for a short sword.   He could be a spy.  
  
Joey thought quickly.  Nothing particularly mutinous had been said; nevertheless, the general resentment of the atmosphere had been noted with interest by this stranger.  That, along with the rare absence of a visit from the Richardson guards that evening, made the entire incident suspect.  It was not unheard of for the Richardsons to employ spies and informants to pinpoint potential dissidence in the population.  Chris had heard of an incident last year in which an incautious conversation in the bread market had resulted in arrests a few hours later, their families displaced, their belongings impounded.  This stranger, whom Joey had never before seen in this neighborhood tavern, could easily be an informant.  
  
His gut clenched as he thought of Justin, hopefully sleeping peacefully in his attic, and the danger a spy could represent.  He couldn’t allow it to happen.  They’d gone through too much and come too far.  
  
Joey left the pub silently, easing down the dark side of the building, out of the brightness caused by this month’s full moon.  He saw the blond man ahead, walking briskly around the curve of the path and headed toward the lower steppe’s main avenue.  Drawing his cloak around him, Joey set off quietly to follow him.  
  
Joey was not a small man, but he moved lightly and his years in the Yard had taught him how to be silent.  The hard-packed dirt of the street softened the sound of his boots, the light from the moon aiding him as he slipped from shadow to shadow in utter quiet.   
  
The stranger strode quickly down the well-lit center of the street, turned down the main avenue and headed toward the west gate and nearest Richardson guard outpost.  Joey drifted back, clinging closer to the dark buildings, and wondered if he should turn back, sound an alarm.  He watched from a distance as a guard from the gate outpost halted the stranger, saw the stranger produce traveler papers for examination from his inside vest pocket.  He was waved carelessly on, pocketing his papers and proceeding down the main avenue.  There was no lingering, and no conversation with the guard.    
  
Joey followed, slipping easily past the guard outpost without being seen. In the beginning there had been five guards to each gate outpost, but now there were only two.  The guard who had stopped the stranger was staring blankly up the avenue in the direction Joey had just come, whistling tunelessly, and the one against the far wall of the outpost was certainly asleep.  Joey was torn between gratitude and contempt for their inattention, their laziness.  It reinforced what he’d been thinking in the pub earlier.  The mood was changing.  Such laxness in the outposts would not have been tolerated by the Richardsons a year ago.  
  
The stranger was almost out of sight around the curve of the avenue, and Joey picked up his pace.  He’d been certain that the stranger was headed for the guard, but now he didn’t know where he was going and Joey’s interest was piqued.  The stranger was climbing one of the stone stairways between the lower and the middle steppe and Joey was thinking which of the middle steppe lodgings he was headed for, and again why he’d come clear down to the lower steppe to listen to tavern gossip, when the blond man stopped walking.  Joey froze in the dark shadow of a cheese maker’s building, hidden from the glow of the moon by its overhanging thatch roof.  He watched the stranger turn, lean against the half-wall to the side of the stairway, and look directly at the Joey’s shadow.  
  
“Why don’t you come out,” he suggested in a voice octaves lower than Joey had expected, pitched almost inaudibly in the silent street.  “I don’t think there’s anybody around, but y’all would probably know that more than I.”  
  
His voice was low, and tinged with a slow, smooth accent that Joey didn’t recognize.  Definitely somebody from Outside, and probably from a fair distance away.  Joey stepped slowly out of the shadows and studied the man.  He was leaning against the half-wall in a posture of complete relaxation but Joey’s trained eye caught the telltale signs of tension.  He seemed at ease, but he was alert, poised for action.  Was it for offense or defense?  There was no sign of hidden weapons, and Joey stepped closer, sharply aware of the knife tucked inside his own boot and how quickly he could have it in his own hand.  
  
Joey took another slow step, watching the stranger closely just as the man was studying him.  
  
“What brings a traveler from Outside so deeply into the lower steppe?” Joey asked quietly, and was surprised when the man met his eyes directly and arched a mildly sarcastic eyebrow.  
  
“Is there some law here preventing travelers from doing that?”  Joey remained silent, and the man’s green eyes examined him carefully.  Joey noticed that he kept his hands loosely at his side, palms tilted slightly outward.  He meant Joey no harm, probably, and Joey felt his caution ease as his curiosity grew.  
  
“Not that I know of,” he replied carefully, “but the Richardson brothers change the rules as they see fit, and usually without letting anyone know.”  He noted a slight tension in the other man’s face with interest.  
  
“I had heard such things,” the stranger murmured, and Joey was reminded of the man’s interest in the story he’d heard at the pub, and the reactions of the people there to it.  He was forming another careful question when the man spoke again.  
  
“I know who you are,” he said suddenly, and Joey’s heart stuttered in alarm, his fingers twitching desperately for a weapon.  “I know you were an Undermaster in the Royal yards, and in the Queen’s guard.  I saw you here, years ago, when my family came to visit this City.”  
  
“That was a long time ago,” Joey ground out, “and I’d like to know what business it is of yours to know such things.”  His pulse thudded in his ears, his eyes searched urgently for some sign of guardsmen hidden nearby, some sign of a trap being laid for him.  He forced himself to stand still as the man pushed himself away from the half-wall and stepped carefully closer.  
  
“I mean you no harm,” he said quietly.  “I’m not a spy.  Not for the Richardsons, anyway.”  He paused, seeming to weigh something in his mind.  “In fact, I’m the opposite.  My home City, to the east, fears the same fate that has befallen the Timberlakes.  I’m here to find out what I can, but you and yours have no reason to fear me.”  
  
Joey studied him carefully, all senses on full alert.  The man stood quietly, green eyes clear, the moonlight throwing sharp shadows on his face.  There was something about him that made Joey want to trust him.  He struggled with himself for a moment, while the man stood patiently under Joey’s regard.  Joey abruptly made a decision.  
  
“What sort of information are you looking for?” he asked finally, and was surprised to see the man’s face relax a bit, in relief.  
  
“In the last ten years the Richardsons have taken four Cities,” he said, his voice almost inaudible in the quiet night.  “They strip them for a few years, build up their coffers, and then destroy them, and everyone in them, before moving on.  My family -- we’re worried that ours will be next.  The one brother, Howie, has been seen inside our gates.  I came here last month to see what I could find out.  Where they’re going, what they’re going to do next.”  He hesitated, his green eyes intent on Joey’s.  “To see, maybe, if there’s a way they can be stopped.  Permanently.”  
  
Joey sucked in a quiet breath.  The man was taking a huge risk telling him even that much, and he nodded in understanding.  “There’s someone you should meet,” he said quietly.  “Back at the pub.”  He turned to walk, and the stranger fell in beside him.  
  
“My name is Bass,” he offered.  “Lance Bass.”  
  
“Joey Fatone.”  
  
“Pleased to meet you, Joey Fatone,” Lance said with an automatic courtesy, and Joey felt the tension coiled in him loosen a little.  “And I know your name,” he added lightly.  “I’ve heard it, at the pub.”  
  
“You seemed very interested in the story you heard, back at the pub,” Joey murmured, leading Lance down one of the dark side alleys off the main avenue, away from the guard post.  
  
“Not so much the story, but the people’s reaction to it,” Lance responded, and Joey nodded in understanding.  “I’ve been hearing similar things, all over the City this month.”  He eased silently through the shadows, moving almost as quietly as Joey himself.  
  
“I don’t remember seeing you.  I mean, I’d never noticed you in the pub until tonight,” Joey said finally, and Lance smiled suddenly, a glint of sharp teeth that glowed white in the moon’s light.  
  
“That’s because I didn’t want you to,” he said.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	29. Twenty-Eight

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-eight  
  
 _And be it moon, or sun, or what you please . . ._  
William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
"I can get you what you need."  
  
Over the past couple of months Chris had grown accustomed to Lance's deep voice. The tone occasionally still caught him unaware, a low rumble that stuttered down Chris's spinal column and clawed into his guts.  That voice should, by rights, belong to someone with dark secrets and dark smouldering eyes and dark and menacing skills, but Chris was accustomed to the fact that the voice didn't seem to go with this blond, pale skinned young man from Outside, with his sharp white teeth and green eyes. Usually Lance looked innocent and wide eyed and even younger than he really was. Usually Lance made Chris feel a hundred years old.  
  
But not always.  When they speculated about the next moves the Richardsons would make, Lance had surprised them all with a series of sharp and well-thought-out theories.  When they debated over when to start quietly spreading the word that the  Timberlake heir was alive, Lance almost casually offered valuable information about the last City the Richardsons had taken, and how they had brutally suppressed a revolution in the first year of their rule.  And when they discussed reconnaissance missions to give them an idea of the strength of the Richardson troops at the secondary gates, Lance somehow already had the information they needed.  
  
And then there were moments like these, when he and Joey and JC were quietly discussing the possibilities and advantages of actually murdering a member of the Richardson family, when the talk had turned to what sort of deadly and small weapons could be easily transported and hidden, and how much damage such weapons could actually inflict. Moments when Lance would swallow his mouthful of ale, wipe his mouth neatly on the cloth napkin, and say "I know what you need. I can get it for you," with an almost bored air of confidence, and they would all fall silent and gape at him. Those were the times when the appearance absolutely went with the voice and the words, when Lance seemed every bit as dangerous as his voice hinted he might be. It was stunning.  
  
JC smiled and looked down into his untouched mug of ale, the hair he'd refused to cut since leaving the dungeon neatly hiding his expression. Joey's face curled into one of his rare, genuine grins, and apparently Chris was the only one at the table still feeling the reverberation of that voice skittering into his ears and down his back to settle sharply in his groin, since he was the only one still blinking at Lance in open-mouthed shock.  
  
Lance looked at across the table at him, the expression in his clear green eyes going from chilling certainty to amusement. He lifted one elegant eyebrow, and Chris watched in fascination. "What?" Lance asked, and there was that voice again. "You don't think I can do it?" His tone had moved to an almost playful warmth, coaxing Chris to join him in this dark and mysterious place where Lance could give him anything he wanted, anything he needed, that it would be easy for him and he would give it willingly. The flickering light from the small fireplace in the corner of the pub made Lance's skin glow like ivory.  He scraped his teeth over his lower lip, making it glisten wetly in the dim light, and Chris stared.  
  
Joey cleared his throat and JC coughed, and Chris realized that he hadn't even been breathing. He yanked himself back to reality with a jolt. On the other side of the table Joey and JC were elbowing each other sharply, stifling laughter, and Chris flushed.  He felt a flash of irrational anger, of irritation, and he held himself back from snapping at Lance with a physical effort and a large gulp of ale.  
  
"Do you even know what we're talking about?" he said quietly, always quietly, and he knew his tone was scornful. Lance's eyes were all business again, and his cheeks flared red as he sat up straighter.  
  
"I know you're talking about a lethal weapon that can be hidden on someone's body and be almost unseen," he said crisply. "I know you need something, or a number of somethings, that can kill quickly and silently. I suspect," and there was that arch of eyebrow again, "that you're thinking some sort of poison would be the best way to go, but Joey has said that that would be almost impossible to administer." The voice was low, and silky smooth. The other eyebrow joined the first, and Lance looked across the rough table at Chris with a hint of a sneer, his green eyes intent and very, very serious. "How am I doing so far?"  
  
"You're doing just fine," Joey said, and he was still smiling. Joey had the most sharply honed instincts Chris had ever seen, and he had gone from caution to respect to trust to genuinely liking Lance in a remarkably short amount of time. Chris still resisted -- too much had happened for him to give his trust so easily -- but he had to wonder just how much of his resistence was due to the fact that Lance was from Outside, and how much was because of that voice.  
  
"We're talking hypothetically, of course," Chris felt compelled to add. "It's really not time. Yet."  
  
"And you have to find someone who can do this," Lance finished calmly. "Someone inside the palace, or who can get inside the palace, and not be suspected."  
  
"I think I know of someone," Joey said quietly, and Chris tore his eyes from Lance's face to look at him in surprise.  
  
"Joe, you're not, you didn't," he started, and Joey shook his head impatiently.   
  
"No, of course not," he murmured, letting the loud voices from the bar on the other side of the room almost completely drown him out. "I haven't talked to anyone, yet. But I'm thinking," he turned to Lance, seated beside him. "I'm thinking if there was some way to get something very thin and very very sharp, like a straight razor only about this long," he held his fingers apart about an inch and a half, "and, a whole lot sharper . . ."  
  
Joey trailed off as Lance nodded slowly.  
  
"I know someone. Let me see what I can do."  
  
Joey sat back, satisfied, and Chris felt a confusing jumble of emotions. Confidence, guarded excitement, anticipation, he examined them all and didn't find the disbelief that he was looking for. Lance would get them something that would work. Chris had no doubt about it, and the relief he felt was nothing short of staggering. It was going to happen.  
  
Lance was draining his mug and preparing to rise, smiling at a joke from Joey and nodding at JC in a friendly manner, but he didn't look at Chris until Chris heard his own voice speaking.  
  
"Where are you going? It's early yet." It was early: the next day was Sunday and only Joey had to work.  
  
"That boarding house I moved to last week, in the middle steppe, they still enforce the curfew," Lance said quietly. "I need to get inside before they bar the door." His green eyes flickered over Chris, unreadable, and Chris found himself on his feet and tossing a coin on the table before he was even aware of moving.  
  
"I'll walk with you." He ignored Joey's innocently raised eyebrows and JC's poorly hidden smile, but his face was hot and it was a relief to leave the stuffy pub behind, stepping out into the clean air and falling into step beside Lance. Lance turned left and headed for the nearest stairway to the middle steppe, and they walked the quiet street in complete silence.  
  
"So," Chris started, and cleared his throat. He could talk to anybody; he'd never, ever had a problem talking to anybody, about anything, and it really annoyed him that this cool pale boy made him tongue tied. "So, you think you can really get this stuff?"  
  
Even in the dark, with the moon hidden behind thick clouds that promised rain soon, Chris could see Lance's smile. "I told you I could, Chris," he said quietly. His voice was low and a little rough, and Chris shivered in the muggy air. "There's a guy, a metal smith, staying at the boarding house. He's trying to get an apprenticeship in the central market, and he knows some techniques that he learned out west, from a tanner who deals with certain types of rodent pelts . . ." Lance spoke carefully, quietly, and Chris approved of how his eyes moved around the street, as vigilant for anyone who might be watching and listening as Chris was himself.  
  
They were at the steps when Lance finished explaining about the metal smith and his ideas for tiny, incredibly sharp skinning blades. Chris restrained himself from offering to walk Lance to his boarding house door, cursing himself for being a fool even as Lance paused at the bottom of the steps. His green eyes were almost colorless in the silver moonlight, and he seemed to be hesitating, weighing something in his mind. Chris waited, dimly aware that he was having trouble breathing again. The silence stretched thickly between them and Chris groped for something to say.  
  
"We were thinking," he started, and his voice was too loud so he took a deep calming breath and started over. "I was thinking, that maybe you'd want to come work out with us. You can't get much Yard work in where you are in the middle steppe," he said, realizing that his voice was scornful. "We have a Yard, a neighborhood Yard, and we go there in the mornings, early. Before light." He watched as Lance smiled a little in honest pleasure, and knew again that they’d been right to trust him.  
  
"I'd like that," Lance said, his odd accent thicker than it had been all night. He swallowed hard. "I'd like that, a lot."  
  
"And, I'm thinking it's probably past time that you met Justin," Chris said quietly, and Lance nodded again as he moved toward the steps. "Be here, two hours before sunrise, and one of us will take you there."  
  
Lance's eyes slid over Chris again, colorless, sharp as a knife, and Chris caught a flash of teeth as he smiled. "I'll be here."  
  
"Be careful," Chris cautioned, feeling a twist of nerves as he thought about Lance alone on the middle steppe, asking questions, being watched. He was so far away there, there was no way they could get to him if he was in trouble. Lance smiled at him again, and it was the young man from Outside, open, young, so handsome. His hand brushed Chris's arm as if by accident as he moved past him toward the steps.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow, then," Lance said, and it sounded like a promise.   
  
Chris made himself walk away without watching Lance climb to the top and disappear into the middle steppe. He walked through silent streets seeing the silvery shadows as the moon played hide and seek, hearing the distant crashing of the ocean's breakers on the beach. He continued home, his step light, and for the first time in years Chris did not see the walls surrounding him and towering over him.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	30. Twenty-Nine

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Twenty-nine  
 _  
Meet Me by Moonlight Alone._  
Joseph Augustine Wade  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Lance was at the bottom of the steps only a few hours after leaving Chris in the same spot.  He knew that the weeks of meetings with Joey and with Chris had merely been precursors to this casual invite to their Yard.  This, he knew with an icy sort of chill that spoke more of nerves than anticipation, was the real test.  
  
He had barely made curfew at his lodging house the night before, and apprehension about not being late to this early meeting had forced him to sneak out of his second story bedroom window a full half hour before the travelers’ curfew lifted.  But not coming hadn’t even occurred to him.  He was painfully alert, his Yard clothes clean and as neat as he could make them.  He had considered and discarded bringing his few practice weapons, fearful of the Richardson guard, and he felt oddly empty handed as he stood in his thin cotton clothes with a light cloak over his shoulders.  He had not slept at all.  
  
The gradually building noise of the shore birds announced that the sun was indeed on its way over the horizon, but here at the edge of the lower steppe the towering wall hid any hint of an impending sunrise.  There were no street torches in this part of the City, and Lance found himself leaning against the alabaster half wall beside the steps, clinging to the faint reflection of the far away illumination of the stars for guidance.  The lower steppe was absolutely silent, and he shifted his weight uneasily as he waited.  
  
He felt the familiar prickling  sensation in his spine that told him he was being watched; it forced him to grit his teeth and strain to appear calm for several minutes.  He waited across from the silent alley and didn’t move when the figure slid out of the shadows and into sight, emerging from an alleyway Lance hadn’t seen and crossing the avenue, heading right toward him.  He was too tall and lean to be Chris, and Lance stifled an irrational surge of disappointment that irritated and alarmed him.  
  
The boy crossed the avenue with easy, athletic strides, coming to a stop just out of sword’s reach from Lance.  They stared at each other for a long moment.  Lance automatically noticed that the boy was taller than he, appeared to have a longer reach and moved lightly, balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet.  The boy’s eyes were in shadow, but Lance felt them moving coldly over him and he unconsciously braced himself.  The silence stretched thin, vibrating like a tight rubber band.  
  
“Sorry I’m late,” the boy said conversationally, and his voice was as much of a surprise as the unexpectedly banal greeting.  The tone was soft, maybe a little nasal and lower than Lance would have guessed.  Looking at the shuttered blue eyes as the boy moved completely out of the shadows he revised his first impression.  The face was still soft and rounded around the cheeks but there was no mistaking the bone structure and there was nothing really youthful in those eyes.  The Timberlake heir.  He stared, silent, and the boy's eyes narrowed.   
  
"Chris had to go to the docks.  He'll be up later," the heir said, and Lance realized he was speaking very slowly. "So I came to get you."  
  
“Yes.  Okay,” Lance responded, and tried to shake himself out of the odd spell.  He’d seen royalty before, he was practically royalty himself, albeit somewhat distantly, even if his own City was a long ways away and light years from this strange, dark place of displaced rulers and revolutionary Yard men.  What was wrong with him?  
  
The boy’s eyes were cool and measuring.  “Chris said to go ahead and bring you to the Yard, have you work out with us,” he said abruptly, and Lance nodded, his throat tight.  He couldn’t seem to form words, he was aware that he was making a lousy first impression.  This wasn’t his City, he reminded himself.  Technically this wasn’t his fight at all.  Why was he so concerned about impressing these people?  The boy’s sharp glance and unsmiling face seemed to condemn him before he’d even set foot in their Yard.  What was he thinking?  His own Yard skills were simply adequate back in his home City; he’d never been a big star there.  He thought of Joey’s reassuringly solid bulk, JC’s quick and unconscious grace, the coiled violence and utter control of Chris’s every movement.  What was he thinking, entering a Yard with these professionals?  
  
He firmly squashed the sudden attack of nerves before they showed on his face, knowing that he succeeded when the boy’s gaze wavered, when he seemed unsure for just a moment.  The silence between them seemed an odd battle of wills, and was broken only when the boy -- the young man -- smiled a little.  It was powerful in the way it softened his whole face, lit up his eyes, and Lance found himself smiling back almost against his will, noticing for the first time that this boy wasn’t much younger than he was himself.  
  
The boy stuck out his hand.  “I’m Justin,” he said simply, and the polite smile stretched into a grin.  “You probably already know that,” he continued, and the matter of fact tone was charming, utterly without arrogance.  
  
Lance met the hand, gripped it firmly as he introduced himself.  Justin laughed a little at their brief attempt to out-squeeze each other, and Lance found himself grinning back at him.  
  
“Heard a fair amount about you,” Justin said, and was he teasing?  Lance couldn’t tell.  
  
“Likewise,” he said with a smile, and Justin nodded good-naturedly.  
  
“Uhm, so.  These are your Yard clothes?”  He indicated Lance’s Yard clothing with a vague gesture and a subtly raised eyebrow, and Lance looked down, puzzled.  Only when he looked closely did he notice the subtle differences between his own Yard clothing and Justin’s, the cut of the neckline, the weight of the cloth.  Justin’s clothes were a dark gray that blended into the pre-dawn dimness perfectly, Lance’s were whiter and glowed faintly.  
  
“They are,” he said simply, and tried out a more friendly grin, letting his accent flow through his words.  “I’m guessing you can tell I’m not from around here.”  He was rewarded with a smile in return as Justin motioned for Lance to follow him.  
  
“You guessed right,” he said cheerfully.  
  
He turned toward the invisible alley, slapping a friendly hand on Lance’s shoulder.  “Let’s go,” he said simply.  “Let’s see what you got.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The lower steppe was completely dark and silent, and Justin’s friendly questions were barely above a whisper as he asked about Lance’s home, how long he’d been in the City, his Yard experience.  He was easy and open, and before he quite knew how it had happened Lance had told Justin about his own father, their City’s chief steward and gatekeeper and second cousin to the King, his home City, nestled against the foothills of the blue mountains far to the east, and about his own Yard experience.  
  
“Hold on,” Justin interrupted, and when he turned abruptly to the left and behind a large hedge Lance almost lost him for a moment in the dimness.  He jogged lightly to catch up.  Here in the shadow of the hedge and the towering black wall behind it there was no light, not even the faint illumination for the stars.  They crept quietly past a row of silent houses, twisting and turning and plunging ever deeper between tall hedges.  Lance had the wry thought that he’d never find his way out of here on his own.    
  
Finally Justin tugged at his cloak, and when they turned another hedge corner a clearing opened up and Lance saw that they were at the dark end of a small, neatly kept Yard.  Justin hastened around the wall to the small half gate, his steps light and eager.  Lance followed more slowly.  
  
There were two figures moving inside, their shadows flickering oddly against the white walls, and he saw as he drew closer that it was Joey and JC, sparring with thickly wrapped long swords.  Justin was crouched next to a bag, drawing out another practice sword and when Lance stopped beside him he handed him another one, and the wrappings to muffle it.  He hefted the sword, accustoming himself to its weight and balance, and wrapped the shining sharp end quickly and efficiently.  He noted Justin’s raised eyebrows as he finished and looked up.  Justin was only half done wrapping his own sword, his lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated, and Lance took the opportunity to study the opponents on the other side of the wall while he waited.  
  
Joey and JC had apparently been at their workout for awhile, both of them already sporting wet patches on their gray cotton shirts.  He’d expected Joey’s grace and economy of movement, had watched him for too long to be surprised.  But JC, whom he’d only met a handful of times, surprised him completely.  In the noisy pub he was quiet, sometimes awkward, often getting tangled up in conversation and going off on tangents while trying to explain himself.  Now, Lance saw that the Yard was JC’s true milieu, that he was utterly comfortable with a deadly weapon in his hand.  For the first time, Joey’s tendency to defer tactical decisions to JC made sense.    
  
As Lance watched, Joey called a break, grinning as he slapped JC on the shoulder and making a scathing comment about how old and feeble and rusty JC was.  JC laughed, nodding good-naturedly, and Joey looked up at the gate as Lance finally followed Justin in.  
  
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said.  “Fresh meat.”  But Joey’s smile was huge and welcoming, and he slung a sweaty arm across Lance’s shoulders, squeezing briefly in welcome before sketching a mock salute at Justin.  “I was getting so bored and tired, trying and trying to teach JC the proper technique.”  He laughed as JC swatted him.  “Which one of you goes first?  Step right up.”  
  
Joey’s ease was almost painful to see; it offered a brief glimpse of what he must have been like before the Richardsons, before the invasion and the disappearance of his little family.  This cheerful, energetic man was the real Joey, not the silent, deadly person Lance had seen countless times now outside of the Yard.  Lance couldn’t help but grin at him.  
  
“Warm up first,” came JC’s soft reminder from the darker side of the yard, where he was starting to work on long sword targeting.  Justin nodded and bounced in place, stretching his limbs and rolling his shoulders, and so far it didn’t look too different from the routine Lance followed at home.  He stretched out beside Justin, feeling his muscles lengthen and loosen, grimacing a little.  It had been a little too long, he thought.  He rose and hefted the sword in his hand as he faced Joey, firmly squashing down another sudden attack of nerves.  His sword skills were solid, he knew this, but he smiled wryly as he thought _at least Chris isn’t here. . ._  
  
Joey went easy on him for the first several minutes, moving at a steady intermediate level with sequences that were by and large familiar to Lance, and he was able to hold his own.  He was warmed by Joey’s nods of approval, felt his apprehension ease as he was able to move smoothly through the weapons forms.  
  
He was dimly aware of Justin and JC practicing targeting across the Yard, their voices almost silent, speaking in an unintelligible shorthand even when he could their words.  Joey pressed, stepping up the pace, and Lance struggled to keep up, concentrating fiercely.  He wanted to earn their respect, he wanted to be part of what they were, and the intensity of his desire shook him, splintering his concentration.  Joey killed him twice, but Lance focused fiercely and put up a good fight and the approving smile Joey gave him when he called a halt made him flush with pleasure.  
  
JC and Justin had finished targeting and sparring, and as he watched the three of them carefully stowed their practice swords.  They were getting ready for hand to hand, he knew, and all his hard-won ease seeped out of him.  Weapons were his strength; he’d always struggled with the hand-to-hand forms, and he felt his stomach clench a little in dread as he handed JC his practice sword.  
  
“Boys and girls.”  Chris’s voice was a cheerful whisper, almost silent in the pre-dawn dimness, and his teeth flashed in greeting.  There were good natured insults all around, and Lance hung back a little.  They were such a unit, the four of them.  He felt Chris’s eyes on him and turned away until the heat in his face faded.  
  
“I see you had no trouble finding our little foreigner,” he heard Chris say to Justin, but didn’t hear Justin’s laughing reply, and when Chris spoke next he was right behind Lance.  
  
“How’s your work-out?” he asked mildly, and Lance turned to answer with as much composure as he could muster, considering Chris’s dark eyes were directly on his face.  
  
“Pretty good,” he said, and blinked when Chris snorted rudely.  
  
“Is that what you call pretty good where you come from?  Huh.  Well, that’s remarkable.  Isn’t that remarkable, Joe?”  Chris turned to Joey with a lifted eyebrow.  “Outside boy here thinks being killed by you _three times_ means he’s had a pretty good work out.  Imagine that.”  
  
Lance didn’t need Joey’s wink and grin to know he was being teased, but he couldn’t stop the flush from climbing again up his neck.  “It was only twice,” he muttered.  He cursed his fair complexion for the millionth time, and blessed the dim light in the Yard for the third.  
  
He hung back as they fell into position for basic katas, feeling awkward and uneasy.  There were subtle differences between what the other four were doing and what he’d been taught, and the differences became more pronounced as the katas became more advanced.  After a solid half an hour, less than half of his techniques were matching up with the movements performed by the other four men in the Yard, and he drew back in embarrassment, drawing back into the shadows, out of the flickering light.    
  
He didn’t understand why he was so bitterly disappointed.  His own City was far from here.  It stood to reason that the basics of the Yard work would be different, and it was ridiculous to expect anything different.  If he was honest with himself, he could admit that his attempt to work out with them in their home Yard had been a bid for acceptance, and that on another level he was hoping for more than acceptance from Chris.  He’d been hoping for respect, and approval.  Watching Chris move easily, effortlessly through the most advanced katas, perfectly balanced and in easy synchronization with the other three men in the Yard, he knew he’d failed.  
  
“Hey,” Justin’s voice was quiet and right beside him, and he started a little.  “Hey, it’s alright.  You’re from far away, nobody expects you to do things exactly the way we do them.”  His eyes were serious and perfectly sincere, and Lance felt himself calm a little.  Justin nodded.  
  
“Come back, work with us.”  His smile was open, persuasive.  “It feels good when you’re here.  It feels right.  Just, come back, and we’ll stay in the back and work together.  Just do what I do, okay?”  Lance hesitated, but he nodded again, pushing himself off the wall and walking back into the Yard beside Justin.  
  
“I was thinking,” Justin said quietly.  “Later, maybe, you can show me some of those moves you did.”  His eyes were wide and perfectly sincere, and bright with interest.  “I think, well, it seems like some of them would be really effective, and I’d like to learn more.  If that’s okay.”  
  
Lance nodded again, falling back into place beside Justin and feeling his heart swell a little with emotion.  It was a rare talent, the ability to be able to make someone who was an almost complete stranger feel welcome, even wanted and valued.  He saw JC nod approvingly at the two of them, caught Joey’s grin as he turned, blocked, kicked, and felt Chris’s eyes on him as he re-entered the circle.    
  
“This’ll be fun,” Justin said quietly, and his grin was approving, encouraging.  “Just follow me,” he said, and Lance smiled back, feeling his tension ease even as he marveled at Justin’s skills, his easy ability to establish rapport.  
 _  
What a king he will make_ , Lance found himself thinking as he mirrored Justin’s strong, sure movements, and he smiled.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Their workout ended almost an hour later as more people trickled into the little, hidden Yard.  These were all neighborhood people and regulars, Lance could tell by the way they greeted Joey and Chris, deferred respectfully to JC, watched Justin from the corners of their eyes and bowed low when they made eye contact with him.  It interested Lance that Justin seemed alternately pleased by and uncomfortable with the attention.  
  
Lance didn’t think he’d ever been as tired as he was right now.  The dawn was brightening the sky beyond the gray wall, and the little Yard was filling up.  Joey and JC were staying to teach an informal class for the people that had come to work-out and requested it.  Lance stepped out of the now-crowded Yard, leaning against the half wall and wiping the sweat from his face as he watched JC encourage Justin to go home, get some breakfast.  They stood too close together when they talked, he noted absently.  They weren’t touching each other, but there was an air of solitude around them as they talked, like they’d forgotten they weren’t alone.  If this were a formal Yard, they’d be gossiped about.  He watched Justin’s face closely, and decided that Justin, at least, wouldn’t care.  
  
Chris leaned against the wall beside him, his eyes on the people lining up for practice forms, and he didn’t look Lance’s way when he glanced at him.  
  
“Nice Yard,” Lance offered, finally, and was pleased to see Chris’s face light up.  
  
“Well, thanks.”  He smiled, looking around with an obvious pride.  “Joey and I cleaned it up over a year ago, when the Richardsons stopped patrolling this part of the lower steppe.  We needed to have somewhere to work.  And, you know, to keep ourselves busy.”  He arched a sardonic eyebrow at the full-to-overflowing Yard.  “We never expected to have quite so much company.”  
  
Lance smiled, for once completely at ease with Chris.  “You’ll have to turn people away before much longer,” he said.  “Or get a bigger Yard.”  
  
“A bigger Yard, I think,” Chris said thoughtfully.  “Or, start sending people out to the other neighborhoods, see who else wants to brush up on their skills.”  The eyes he turned to Lance were sharp with dark humor.  “See who else wants to join our little army.”  
  
Lance watched Justin take his place in the pinyon circle, behind and slightly to JC’s left as they started an intermediate sequence.  It didn’t surprise him that Justin was so good at this, that it seemed to come so easily to him.  He noted the way everybody’s eyes went to him, felt the quickening of attention and purpose in the Yard as the fighting practice began.  
  
“How about you, Lance?”  Chris’s voice was quiet.  “These people want to be part of our little party because they’ve been living under the Richardsons for almost three years and have had more than enough.  That’s why they’re here.  But you,” he paused, and the eyes he turned to Lance were completely serious.  “I’m very interested in why you’re here.”  
  
Lance met his eyes directly.  He had nothing to hide from Chris, and it was easy to tell him what he’d told Joey at the very beginning, about his home City and their fears of a similar invasion, about the pride he took in the assignment, how important it was for the Richardsons to be stopped before they could inflict any more misery anywhere else.  He believed in it, utterly, and he could see that Chris was convinced of his sincerity as he nodded.  
  
“Yes, I know that,” Chris said quietly, as he stooped to gather up his gear.  “And we’ve appreciated every bit of help you’ve given us, you know that.”  He motioned for Lance to follow him as he walked down the narrow hedge way, and Lance paced easily beside him.  He was suddenly hyper aware of how private this little corner of the lower steppe was, silent and still even now that full day was breaking.  The waking bustle of the City seemingly dim and very far away.  
  
“I guess what I really want to know,” Chris said, stopping suddenly and turning to face Lance, the shadows from the wall and the high hedge throwing them completely into darkness.  “What I really want to know, is are you here for the long haul?  Or will you be running back home when things start getting rough?”  
  
Lance was standing close enough to Chris to count each one of his absurdly long, dark eyelashes.  The brown eyes burned into his, making him tremble inside.  For a moment he thought about his family, the last letter from parents begging him to come home, their worry about the volatile environment he was sinking ever deeper into.  He thought about his duty to his own home.    
  
But this was the moment, the one he’d been secretly hoping for during all these months of meetings and information and dark, clandestine planning.  This was where he went out on a limb, and hoped for the best.  He took a deep breath and carefully stepped closer to Chris.  
  
“I want to be here for the long haul,” he said quietly, aware that his accent was thicker when his voice was choked with emotion.  “I believe in what you’re doing, and I want to be here as long as I can be useful to the four of you, to what you’re trying to do.”    
  
Chris didn’t move.  His eyes were burning into Lance’s, demanding everything and giving nothing away.  Lance kept his own from wavering with a huge effort.  “I’ll be here,” he said, finally, his heart pounding in his ears, “for as long as you want me to be.”  
  
Chris stared at him for a long, silent moment, and Lance held his breath.  
  
“Well,” Chris said finally, and his voice was completely normal, as if they’d been discussing the weather, as if Lance hadn’t just laid his heart on the dusty ground between them.  “Well, I’d have to say that what you just said what pretty much exactly what I was hoping to hear.  All of it.”  And then Chris gave him a smile, a real one, and the rush of relief, of joy, slammed through Lance so intensely that he felt dizzy.  
  
They turned to walk up the narrow path between the hedges, toward the gradually growing noise from the main lower steppe avenue.  The silence between them was both easy and charged with tension.  
  
“We were thinking,” Chris said casually, his eyes intent on the path in front of him.  “Joe and I, we were thinking that it might be better for you to move out of the middle steppe, and stay with us.  Joey’s house is big, there’s plenty of room, and if something happened . . .”  
  
He didn’t finish the thought but Lance could hear it, and it spread a warmth through him that made him fight a huge grin.  If something happened, if we were here and you were there and we couldn’t help each other.  Chris cared.  They all cared, but most important, Chris cared.  
  
“I have some things to do in the middle steppe today,” he answered just as casually.  “Some people to talk to, about some . . . supplies.”  
  
Chris nodded, and Lance stopped again, turned to face him.  
  
“But after that, yeah.”  He smiled a little, and was overjoyed to see Chris smile back at him, his dark eyes warm.  “Yeah, definitely.”  
  
Chris’s smile grew, became just a little wicked.  “The sooner the better.  Okay?”  
  
“Okay.”

  
~ ~ ~ ~


	31. Thirty

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Thirty  
  
 _How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank . . ._  
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
“So, rumor has it that you’re the man to talk to if one needs things.”  
  
Lance looked up from his duffle bag in surprise.  Usually Justin didn’t hang around for too long after Yard work; he packed up his stuff and said good bye quickly.  He was more likely to be social before Yard time, and often arranged to meet Lance for an early workout.  Justin was very interested in the way the katas Lance had learned differed from his own training, and Lance was touched by Justin’s kind efforts to teach him the way things were done here.  But once workout was over Justin usually headed quickly back to the house, especially when daylight was on its way.  
  
But it was indubitably Justin, biting his lip and looking earnestly at some point just beyond Lance’s left shoulder.  His bag was packed, and he was fidgeting with it, transferring it from one hand to the other and then back again.  Lance’s eyebrows went up, and he finished wrapping his practice sword quickly, stowing it and standing to face him.  
  
“What sort of things do you have in mind?” he asked mildly, his mind already racing with possibilities.  Chris had asked him to obtain some small, sharp throwing knives just last week, Joey continued to be very interested in the explosives the Richardsons were rumored to be stockpiling, and he wondered what Justin could want.  He watched in puzzlement as Justin looked down and shuffled his feet a little.  
  
“There’s this stuff . . .” he trailed off and Lance’s puzzlement deepened.  “It’s just, you know, I can’t go out looking for these things myself,” he suddenly blurted out, and then looked furtively around, like he was afraid someone would hear him.  He jerked his head to the side and pulled Lance away from the Yard wall, around the corner to stand by the tall hedgerow.  
  
“Justin, what is it?”  They were out of hearing distance, but not out of sight of the people in the Yard, and from across the white half walls he saw Joey look at them, inquisitively.  “Just tell me what it is.”  
  
“Well, it’s _personal,_ ” Justin whispered desperately.  “I, it’s just, okay, I’m embarrassed.  But I can’t ask Chris, ‘cause he’d give me shit, and I want it to be a surprise because JC’s birthday is coming up, and we’ve never really been able to celebrate it.”  Justin trailed off, and even in the dim light that said the sun wasn’t up over the horizon yet, Lance saw his cheeks were bright red.  
  
“So, what is it,” he asked again, growing impatient.  “A birthday present?  What?”  
  
If anything, Justin’s face seemed to get even redder.  “Well, there’s stuff, you know, that guys use.  For, you know . . .”  He waved his hand around vaguely and Lance blinked for a moment before his jaw dropped.  
  
“You mean, so you can . . .”  
  
Justin nodded.  “Well, yeah,” he said, in relief.  “I just, I mean, I want to get it myself, but I don’t even know where to go for it, you know.”  
  
Lance frowned at him.  “You mean, you’ve never had to get it before?”  
  
Justin rolled his eyes.  “No.  No, we’ve never had, I mean, we haven’t ever . . .”  He trailed off again, and shrugged, his mouth tight.  “It’s a, well, never mind.  But do you know where to get it?  I mean, I want to get some.”  
  
“Oh.  Well.”  Lance waited, but Justin offered no other explanation and kept his eyes down.  
  
“So, can you help me?” he asked, subdued, and there something so quiet in his tone, Lance could do nothing but nod.  
  
“Sure, Justin.  That’s an easy one, really.”  He tried for a smile, and was rewarded by seeing one spread tentatively across Justin’s face in response.  “I mean, I thought you were gonna ask for something hard.  Like a twenty foot mechanical battering ram or something,” he joked, and Justin laughed a little, relaxed.  
  
“No, I let the others deal with those sort of things,” he said, and offered a small smile.  “Right now, I’m concentrating on the little stuff.  Putting my life in order, I guess.”  Justin glanced into the Yard where JC was working targeting with a small long sword class, then cast an eye at the rapidly lightening sky and frowned.  
  
“Well, it’s his birthday.  But I hope that’s not all you’re getting him,”Lance teased, and Justin laughed a little, his cheeks still burning.  
  
“No, no.  Joey went with me to the market last week and there was this little silver pendant with his birth sign on it.”  Justin stopped, and grimaced a little.  “Joey had some money and loaned it to me so I could get it for JC, ‘cause it’s perfect, but I want to pay him back.”  He sighed a little, and looked tired.  “Someday, I want to pay him back.  I need to pay you all back.”  
  
Lance watched him closely, feeling sympathy stir.  “Someday soon, you’ll be able to,” he said lightly, and reached out to affectionately sling an arm around Justin’s shoulder.  
  
Justin smiled at him, grateful, before looking back up at the dawn sky.  “I’d better get going.”  He quirked a little smile at Lance.  “Don’t want the guard to catch me,” he said, and he was only half joking.  
  
For a moment Lance was overwhelmed with pity.  In a City of boiling resentment and almost desperate sadness, where every native he’d met had lost someone close to them, Justin often seemed to him to be something special, something shining and hopeful.  People in the Yard looked at him like he was some sort of savior, and there were times when it seemed that Justin had it all.  He was young, handsome, charismatic, surrounded by people who loved and respected him.  He had a natural talent for the Yard arts, a dedication to self-improvement and betterment, and a charisma that convinced other people to follow where he led.  But there were times, like now, when Lance remembered that Justin was just another young man, younger than himself even, someone who’d lost his whole family.  He was a fugitive in his own home City, hiding from the daylight like a criminal, living a life in limbo.  It made Lance sad, and more determined than ever to see Justin where he rightfully belonged.  
  
“I’ll get it to you,” he promised.  “Tomorrow, okay?  Before JC’s birthday for sure.”  
  
Justin smiled, the genuine smile that made his whole face light up, and Lance felt warm from the glow.  “Thanks, Lance.  Thanks, really, I appreciate it.”  He pulled Lance into a hard, one-armed hug, and slapped him once on the back before picking up his bag and heading briskly up the hedgerow.  Lance watched him with a smile until he was out of sight.  
  
When he stepped back to the Yard, JC was just turning away.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
JC faced the small class he was teaching, his features rigidly under control.  He watched them drill, commenting quietly on technique, and all the while his mind rolled fretfully over what he’d just seen, like a tongue over a sore tooth.  
  
He was puzzled, and furious at himself for being surprised.  It wasn’t something that was completely unexpected.  If JC had thought about it before -- and he hadn’t, not really, and that was his own fault -- he’d have realized that it was normal, natural for Justin to look at other people, be interested in other people.   
  
JC picked up a sword and fell in with his class, attacking the target viciously.  Justin had been cooped up in a dungeon for more than two years with nobody but him for company, JC reminded himself, his sword arm shaking as he pushed himself, strained to go faster, harder.  And despite the awful things that had been done to him the day of the invasion, Justin was young, and healthy.  They’d been each other’s only option for years, and had continued to cling to each other in the months since.  He had considered Justin’s presence in the dungeon and their relationship a tremendous gift, one of the few things he could be unreservedly grateful for, and until now he’d been certain that Justin had felt the same way.  But now Justin was looking around, and realizing he had options.  And it was normal, JC reminded himself, shaking sweat out of his eyes and gasping for breath.  Normal.  
  
And Lance was closer to Justin’s own age, JC told himself sternly as he finished the forms and peremptorily dismissed his small class, not noticing the way they watched him, wide-eyed, as he walked away.  Lance had lived his life far away, had a wealth of different experiences, had traveled extensively.  Justin was so interested in travel, in how life was lived away from this City’s walls.  
  
It hadn’t escaped JC’s notice that Justin had been wanting to leave for the Yard earlier and earlier each morning, had looked forward to seeing Lance each day, talking to him and working with him.  JC was glad, had been happy to see the way the two of them clicked, had been pleased that Justin had so easily made another friend.  And he liked Lance too, trusted him, was grateful for the help he was bringing them.  And if JC had thought maybe it was Chris that Lance was interested in -- well, maybe he was wrong.  His mouth twisted a little as he toweled his face, crouching beside his bag.  Maybe he was wrong about a lot of things.  
  
The sun was up, although the high wall still kept the Yard in relative darkness.  Chris would be coming in from the docks soon, and it was time for Joey to head to his shift at the castle.  JC had been at the Yard most of the night; he was tired and hungry, but he found himself lingering as he slowly packed up his practice gear.  If he waited long enough, Justin would already be asleep when he got back to the house.  And he could pretend for one more day that he wasn’t jealous, stupidly, blindly jealous, and that Justin was a gift that he could keep.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	32. Thirty-One

~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Thirty-one  
  
 _The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d . . ._  
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 107  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Lance would sometimes be gone for an entire day and into the night, far past traveler’s and sometimes even citizen’s curfew.  Chris would watch for him in the pub in the evenings, the bulk of his attention on Joey’s and JC’s low-voiced conversations about doings in the palace or the latest movements of the Richardson troops, but with half an ear and eye anticipating Lance’s arrival.  And sometimes the pub would close and Chris would have to wait in the darkness of Joey’s kitchen for the almost silent tap on the back alley door, waving Joey and JC off to bed even on the nights when he had to get up for the fishing boat crew in the small hours of the morning.  
  
“Chris,” Lance would whisper, the low timbre of his voice wrapping thickly around him as he’d step in from the black alley.  “I’m sorry I’m so late, I’m sorry to keep you up.  Make someone else wait up, you need your rest . . .”  
  
Chris would wave that away, embarrassed, impatient, and avoid Lance’s sharp green eyes by asking questions about where he’d been, and what information he’d found out.  And Lance always, _always_ had information.  
  
Lance, with his impeccable travel papers that allowed him into the Richardsons’ own brothels and bars in the upper steppe, who could talk easily to anyone, gleaning information about schedules and routines and guard strength and routine without ever raising even a whisper of suspicion.  Who came and went like a shadow, only being noticed when he wanted to be.  His Yard skills were average, but his intelligence uncommon, and his espionage skills simply outstanding.  He was the most fascinating person Chris had ever met.  
  
Chris refused to acknowledge the leap in his pulse when he saw Lance come into the pub early tonight, throwing back the hood of his rain cloak and shaking droplets from his blond hair, his slanted green eyes searching for them and lighting up with a smile when he saw Chris.  He nodded at JC’s wave and grinned in Joey’s direction as Joey lifted a mug in greeting, but his eyes never left Chris’s.  He took a seat across from him at the rough plank table, his green eyes sparkling with excitement, and pulled a small bundle wrapped in cloth from under his cloak.  He brushed aside the cup and pile of dice and placed the bundle carefully down on the top of the table.  
  
“Take a look at this,” he said quietly, and with a quick glance around the crowded pub to make sure nobody was taking too much of an interest, he unwrapped the bundle as they all leaned forward to see.  
  
At first glance it didn’t look like much: a long cylinder of some sort of thin wood or heavy, pounded paper with a long, stiff string emerging from one of the ends.  They all frowned at it for a moment, until Justin, sitting quietly beside JC near the fire, pointed suddenly and said, “Hey, isn’t that . . .  I mean, I heard about this stuff, it’s filled with some sort of powder, and you light it.  Right?”  He looked across the table at Lance, who nodded with a smile.  
  
“They call it gunpowder,” he said quietly.  “It’s a mixture of a couple of things, sulphur, and charcoal, I’m not sure.  It’s milled somewhere far to the southwest and packed into these tubes, and when you light the end it makes a big explosion.  The bigger the stick, the bigger the explosion.”  
  
Joey whistled in appreciation, and Chris’s mind started to race with the possibilities.  Could it be used as a weapon, as a distraction, as both?  Could they get more?  
  
“How big?” JC asked simply, and Lance smiled at him.  
  
“Very big,” he said.  “This little stick would take out about five feet of a stone Yard wall.  And there are some that are a lot bigger.”  He paused.  “A lot,” he added significantly, and they all sat back as he carefully re-wrapped it in the cloth and slid it onto the bench beside him.  
  
The barkeep brought Lance a tankard without being asked, then smiled at all of them before bestowing an extra little nod to Justin, who smiled easily back.  This man was a regular at their Yard workouts, Chris knew, along with all four of his sons, two cousins, and several other friends and family members.  And, Chris thought as he looked around the pub, with most, if not all, of the people in this pub tonight.  Word had spread oh so quietly in the months since they’d brought Justin out of the dungeons.  Just two weeks ago this pub had been on the receiving end of a random visit by a detail of the Richardson guard, but word had reached the pub so far in advance that they’d had Justin safely home and hidden before the guard had even crossed the pub’s front door.  There were eyes and spies everywhere now, and Chris was grateful for the unofficial network.  
  
But there were few eyes sharper than Lance’s, and Chris thought again with a rush of gratitude how lucky they were to have him on their side.  When this was over people would remember them, but few would know just how significant and important Lance’s contribution had been.  Unless, Chris thought with another careful look at Lance, unless they could convince him to stay.  
  
It amazed Chris that he no longer thought in terms of “if,” but “when.”  Success seemed a foregone conclusion, anticipation was running high all over the City, and the time for action was fast approaching.  He knew from his own and JC’s casual walks through the steppes that Yards all over the City were full of people practicing quietly in the early mornings before the day guard came on duty, people honing their skills with an air of silent determination.  It seemed almost impossible that the Richardsons had not caught wind of these whispers of revolution -- apparently, they had grown as complacent as the Timberlakes had been before them.  
  
That wouldn’t happen again, Chris thought grimly.  He looked again at the clean lines of Justin’s face, so much like his mother’s, and felt his resolve strengthen further.  The City would be taken back and peaceful rule would be restored, but they would never, ever relax their vigilance again.  
  
Joey was grinning at Lance with the full-faced smile that meant he was really enjoying himself as he asked quiet questions about the explosives.  “We could make use of these,” he was saying, indicating the wrapped bundle at Lance’s side.  “If there are more, we could use them as weapons and as distractions.  Properly placed, they could do a lot of damage, even to the castle itself, don’t you think?”  
  
JC winced involuntarily and the table went silent for a moment.  Chris leaned forward and spoke for the first time.  “Justin,” he said, willing the young man to look up from his determined study of the tabletop and meet his eyes.  “Justin, we’ll build you a new castle if it comes to that.”  
  
Justin was leaning very slightly against JC, but when he looked up at Chris his face was completely impassive.  His eyes were clear and blue and gave nothing away.   “It doesn’t really matter to me,” he said quietly.  “It isn’t my home.  Hasn’t been, not for years now.”  
  
Chris opened his mouth to say something, in surprise, in anger, but Joey interrupted him with more questions about the explosives.  “Can you get more?  Are there more?” he asked Lance, hurrying to fill up the strange silence that had settled like a heavy blanket over the table.  “Because, you know, we could really use these.”  
  
Lance took a long swallow from his tankard and sighed before he answered.  “I got this one from a Richardson guardsman, actually.  He says the old armory behind the royal Yards is full of them, that this is actually one of the smallest.”  His eyes met Chris’s when he looked up, although he was still speaking to Joey.  “We have this one.  _They_ ,” he jerked his head in the general direction of the castle, “have the rest of them.  All of them.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	33. Thirty-two

Thirty-two  
  
 _Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,_  
 _And moon-struck madness._  
John Milton, Paradise Lost  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Choosing to celebrate JC’s birthday in the pub rather than quietly at home was a little bit of a risk.  But the truth was that the Richardson guard hadn’t paid this part of the lower steppe a visit in almost three months.  The closest guard post was routinely unmanned after dark, and two people, regulars from the Yard, had volunteered to keep watch down at the edge of the street.  
  
So they would celebrate.  Even Beverly had been coaxed out of the safety of the house and was now seated in a large chair near the fire, smiling a little nervously as people greeted her.  And JC, usually so very cautious with alcohol, had already drained two mugs on an empty stomach, and was starting to slur a little.  Raising his eyebrows, Justin had casually replaced JC’s ale mug with a  mug full of cider.  Joey motioned for the meal to be served.  
  
Some people had brought musical instruments, and a band composed of a fiddle, a guitar, and some hand-held bongo drums played lively music from the corner of the room.  Chris had placed JC at the head of the long main table in the center of the room, and the pub was full of familiar faces.  Regulars from their own Yard and those from other neighborhoods in the lower steppe, people who sought them out for the predawn workouts.  If JC squinted a bit, it wasn’t all that different from the party that had happened for his birthday three years ago.  
  
That pub had been high up on the middle steppe, he recalled, and it had been bigger and brighter inside, with high whitewashed ceilings and an inner courtyard open to the air.  There had been a band, food and music, all his friends and many of their friends, people from the royal Yard, the neighborhood Yards, the Guard.  His parents and younger brother had come to the City ostensibly to take care of some business, but mostly to be with him on his birthday.  There had been laughter, and dancing, and too much to drink, but it had been a wonderful night.   
  
This pub he was in now was tiny and dark, and the doors and windows were closed tight so as to not draw the attention of any stray Guardsman that might pass by.  There was food and drink but the food was sparse, and the beer was weak and odd-tasting.  Shortages caused by the Richardsons had made it impossible for the pub owners to obtain the barleys necessary for their beer recipe.  The beer was also only a fraction of the price, which in these lean times was quite a plus.  Tables had been shoved against the wall but there was barely room to dance.  Yet people tried, packed tightly against each other and trying hard to move.  
  
JC drained his fourth or perhaps his fifth tankard, and smiled blearily at the people crowded around him.  He knew them all, had been practicing Yard arts with them for months now, but with his memories of the other birthday so close to the surface they suddenly seemed like strangers, people who had never known the young man he’d been, the man who had been so different from the person he was today.  He thought of his friends, his family, all of them gone, and thought he had never, ever felt as alone as he was right this minute, in a crowded pub full of familiar faces.  There was nobody alive who really knew him anymore.  
  
When JC closed his eyes, his parents' faces were crystal clear before him, and suddenly, he was desperate to see them, desperate to know whether they were okay.  There had been no news of them at all, and he had no idea where to look for them, where even to start.  JC wished violently that he'd never returned to the City with Joey following their reconnaissance trip all those months ago.  He should have set off immediately to hunt for them, to make sure they were all right.  Now, there was no one alive who really knew him, not even those he now called his friends.  He hadn't known Lance at all before the invasion, and Chris and Joey had been only slight acquaintances.  Justin had been familiar only by sight.  For a moment, JC felt horribly isolated.  
  
But Justin knew him now.  Justin had taken care of him when he was sick, distracted him when his claustrophobia had threatened his sanity in the dungeon, and made him laugh when he was sad.  Justin had been right by his side for the past three years, and JC knew, suddenly, that nobody understood the person he was today more than Justin.  But Justin, he thought morosely as he took another deep pull from his tankard, didn’t care any more.  
  
His eyes searched Justin out in the dim pub and found him, talking and laughing to a group of people.  They had probably approached him to talk about the Yard, the revolution, the plans, JC thought, but now one of them was telling a story and they were all laughing.  When he put his mind to it, Justin was masterful at diverting people’s attention from himself.  
  
They had needed each other so much, JC thought, but now Justin was moving on, away from him, and he’d struggled hard for the last few days to get used to that idea, to be okay with it.  But all the hard thought had backfired on him.  He frowned a little as Justin turned, laughing and beautiful, to say something over his shoulder to Lance and Chris.  He was light years away from the battered boy who had been dumped at JC’s feet in a dark dungeon, and it was only now could he could fully admit to himself that it was Justin the person, not the beaten child, the Yard student, or the royal heir, who had made him stay in the City.   
  
And JC wanted him, fiercely, and not out of any sense of loyalty or a seeking of comfort but because he loved him, all of him.  If he lost Justin, he realized slowly, he could very well be alone and miserable for the rest of his life.  And he owed it to himself, to both of them and all that they’d survived together, to fight to keep him.  
  
As JC watched, Justin’s eyes slid around the room and met his, and JC felt the impact of the blue eyes like a physical blow.  Justin’s smile warmed a little, and one eyebrow raised slightly as he took in JC’s tense posture, the empty tankard at his elbow.  He gracefully disengaged himself from his conversation with a laugh and a smile, and made his way slowly across the room to slide onto the bench beside JC.  
  
“Hey,” he said quietly, his eyes bright on JC’s face.  “How’re you doing?”  
  
JC met his eyes squarely and smiled, just a bit, slowly.  “Hey there,” he said, his voice low and a little husky.  He let his smile widen, ran his tongue across his lower lip, and watched Justin blink.  “I’m good.  Feeling real good,” he said, and let himself lean his leg against Justin’s under the table.  His eyes never left his.  “How’re you?”  
  
“Uhm, yeah.  Good.”  Justin couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away.  “Happy birthday,” he said quietly, his smile warm.  He leaned forward, his arm steaming hot against JC’s.   
  
JC sat up straight, his fingers going to his throat and pulling out the pendant, and ran his fingers along the dark rawhide around his neck.  “I love this, J.  Thank you so much for it.”  He stroked down the curve of his bare neck, and saw Justin gulp.  
  
“I’m glad you like it.  I am.”  Justin smiled suddenly, brilliantly.  “It’s not all I have for you, you know.  But, um, this is what I could give you in public.”  He was blushing a little, and JC smiled slowly at him.  
  
“I can’t wait,” he murmured.  
  
Justin stared at him for a moment, then tipped his tankard back and drained it.  “We should go now,” he said abruptly, getting to his feet.  “Now, we could go now.  Nobody will miss us.”  
  
“Hey,” JC protested mildly, even as he allowed Justin to haul him to his feet.  “I think they will miss us.  I mean, this whole thing is sort of for me, right?”  But he was smiling as Justin motioned to Chris that they were leaving with a snap of his head toward the back door.  Chris grinned and rolled his eyes, and before JC knew it they were out the back door and into the clear, crisp night.  
  
Other than the crickets chirping beneath the hedges it was absolutely silent.  The night air was cool and the moon was far off and chilly, but Justin’s hand was warm around his.  He strode briskly through the twisted back alleys toward Joey’s house, and JC felt an answering sense of urgency even as he squashed the guilt over his shameless manipulation of Justin.  
  
Except the cold air brought sobriety.  By the time they reached their back door, JC, fumbling with the keys to the complicated locks as Justin breathed harshly against his neck, was finding it harder to justify what he was trying to do.  His original half baked thought of ensnaring Justin with really good sex seemed more than stupid, it was insane and disrespectful.  He wasn’t dealing with a run-of-the-mill hormonally charged young man here.  This was Justin, who’d had so much to overcome before he’d come to JC that first time in the dungeon, Justin, who still reflexively stiffened up during sex if he felt constrained or restrained in any way, Justin, who had never, ever suggested to JC that they take that final complete step.    
  
As the door finally opened and they moved inside JC’s head whirled with self-recrimination and a slowly rising despair.  Justin was not someone he could manipulate, or trap, and he couldn’t imagine why he would ever, even drunk, have considered such a thing.  They were close; they had been there for each other through the most dismal experience either could imagine, and there was honest emotion as well as respect between them.  And sex hadn't been merely a matter of convenience for them, it had been a way to give and receive affection at a time when they were both very alone, a way for Justin to exorcize some demons, and a comfort to them both.  They had been, perhaps, mutually dependent.  But Justin had never told JC that he loved him, and JC knew that if what he suspected were true, if Justin was growing up and away, that he could not in good conscience prevent it from happening.  And his throat closed up even as Justin coaxed him up the stairs to their little room and securely latched the door behind them, because he knew that this would be their last night together.  
  
Justin’s mouth was urgent against his and his hands were a little rough as they peeled the clothes from his body.  And JC responded the way he always did to Justin, his pulse starting to pound heavily as Justin’s mouth moved down the side of his neck, nibbled teasingly under his ear, licked moistly at the string around the small silver pendant he’d given him.  JC’s hands slid hungrily over Justin’s side, over smooth skin that almost scorched his palms and then tore his shirt away impatiently so they could move over his firm chest, his flat, hard stomach.  Justin gasped in his ear as JC’s thumbs circled his nipples, throwing his head back so JC could mouth his throat.  Their hips moved together and then they both gasped.  
  
“JC,” Justin said, his hands moving hard over JC’s buttocks and pulling him close against him.  “Um,” his breath hitched as JC’s hands slid down the front of his pants, scratching a circular pattern through the course hair, moving ever lower.  “C, um, I do have something else.  For you.”  Justin’s breath hitched in again, and released on a low, slow groan.  “For your birthday,” he whispered finally, and JC raised his head and looked at him.  
  
There was no light from the dim moon far away on the horizon, but the stars threw illumination through the vents that colored Justin in stark stripes of black and gray.  His eyes shone, his lips were swollen and there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his skin that JC ached to taste.    
  
“I already have my present,” he murmured unsteadily.  “I already have it, I have everything I want, right here . . .”  
  
Justin blinked and his mouth dropped open a little, and for a moment JC feared he had said too much, revealed too much.  Then Justin smiled, brilliant and gleaming, and pulled him close, kissing him firmly, almost chastely on the lips.  
  
“JC.  Thank you,” he murmured simply, and his hands slid down the back of JC’s pants, massaging deeply as he pulled him in and tilted his head to look into his eyes.  
  
“There’s something else,” and why was Justin whispering?  JC struggled to clear his fogged mind, to discern the reason for the small, shy smile lurking on Justin’s gorgeous mouth.  “I have this, I got, you know, that stuff.”  He looked expectantly at JC, his hips still moving slowly against his, and JC struggled to understand.  
  
“You know,” Justin said, a trifle impatiently.  “You know, that stuff, the stuff guys need for . . .” his hand waved vaguely at the bed, and JC turned his head to look at it, blankly.  “You know,” Justin finished triumphantly, and suddenly JC did know.  
  
“Oh,” he said jerkily as Justin’s mouth bent to his again.  “Oh, Justin, you didn’t, I mean, we’ve never.”  
  
“I know,” Justin whispered against his throat.  “We never did, and I was kind of scared, and you were always so nice, and yeah.  But, I was just being stupid, you know.”  He pulled back to look into JC’s eyes, and he was so open, so honest and trusting.  “I mean, nothing we’ve ever done, ever, has been anything like what happened before.  Not ever,” he said, and JC’s heart swelled painfully.  “And, you know,” Justin hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching JC’s.  “You know, I love you, JC.  So much.”  
  
JC heart stopped, and Justin continued after a brief silence.  “And, I thought now would be good, because there’s nothing I can really give you.  I mean, I don’t have anything anymore, but I wanted to give you something special, something so you would know what you mean to me.  And, ‘cause,” he shrugged with a little smile that made JC’s heart squeeze painfully, “it is your birthday.”  
  
JC lifted a hand and shaped it to the side of Justin’s face, smiling a little as Justin turned into it, kissing his palm.  “Justin,” he whispered back to him.  “Justin, do you even know how much I love you?  How much you mean to me?”  And was rewarded at the bloom of Justin’s smile.  
  
“I know,” he answered simply.  “I can tell.  You make me feel it, every day.”  
  
“Oh,” JC said simply, and then the happiness bloomed through him, spreading like warm sunshine from his heart all through his body, and his throat closed as Justin pulled him close and hugged him hard.  They held each other for a long time, swaying easily, as if to music that wasn’t there.  
  
“So, we going to use that stuff?” Justin murmured eventually.  “Because I’d hate to think I embarrassed myself in front of Lance about getting it for nothing.”  
  
JC let that sink in, and felt his last lingering doubts lift from him.  He laughed a little, wrapping his arms hard around Justin and holding him tight, wondering what right he had to feel this good, this lucky and happy in the midst of so much uncertainty and violence and fear.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	34. Thirty-three

Thirty-three  
  
 _by yonder blessed moon I swear . . ._  
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It was the first time in weeks he’d been home before traveler’s curfew, but nobody was at Joey’s to remark upon it when Lance arrived.  Joey was working the late shift in the palace kitchens, he knew, and Chris, JC and Justin were most likely at the Yard.  Chris’s mother was deep asleep in her room in the basement, and Chris would eventually be home to change before heading to the docks, but right now the house was quiet.  
  
Lance was glad, because he finally had received a letter from home, and he wanted to read it without distractions.  
  
Paper was rare and very expensive, so letters were pretty infrequent.  Any incoming written messages were always screened by the gate guards before being made available for pick up, and Lance suspected fewer than half his family’s letters were making their way to him.  He looked at the envelope, the fine paper rough with dirt under his mother’s impeccable handwriting.  He smoothed his fingers over it as he opened it, the seal already broken from the guard’s inspection, and remembered the small writing desk she kept in the study, stocked with her fine ink pens and paper she went to the market to select herself.  For a moment Joey’s tiny, bare living room faded away and he could almost see his mother, smiling at him in the dim glow of the lamps in the study, see the rich furnishings, the lush, colorful imported rugs beneath his feet.  He could smell the light floral scent she wore, hear her low, smooth voice.  For a moment it was so clear he was shaken, and he saw that he’d wrinkled the paper in his clenched fingers.  He’d been gone for so long, he thought, and wondered if this was what homesickness felt like.  
  
He made his way to the small room at the end of the hall that had been his for all the months he’d lived in Joey’s house.  It had once been a large storeroom, he thought, filled with linens and baskets and such.  Most of the shelving was gone, replaced by a small bed and table, with some open shelves to stack his few personal items on.  It was small, but the bed was comfortable and last month Joey had put a thick rug on the floor so he wouldn’t feel the chill from the stone when the weather turned cold.  There was no window, but JC had come back from the market one day with a large wall hanging, almost a tapestry which he and Justin had hung on the wall while Lance was out.  It was the first thing he saw when he woke up every morning, a colorful depiction of the City’s ocean view, with the docks on one side and part of the fleet, heading in from sea on the other.  It made him think of Chris, and he was certain that JC and Justin knew that when they’d hung it there, at the end of the small bed that he still slept in alone.  
  
It made him smile, though.  The little dark room had a coziness, a warmth and familiarity that made him feel at ease.  It has less to do with the room’s dubious comforts than the other inhabitants of the house, he knew.  He might miss his family, but he wasn’t homesick.  Because he was home.  
  
He settled down on the bed with a sigh, turning the lamp to reading level and opening his mother’s letter.  
  
It was on a small piece of paper, and short.  _Dear James.  We are all well here, although we miss you very much.  Travel has been very light despite the fine weather, although Ford says there have been several that have come from as far as the coast, and the mountains up north._ He sat up, his senses sharpening.  Ford, his sister’s husband, who was in charge of the traders’ registration at his home City.  There were two small ink splatters under the c in the word coast.  She was telling him that now two of the Richardson brothers had been seen in their City.  This perhaps explained why Brian hadn’t been seen recently.  
  
 _Despite your hopes of obtaining an apprenticeship there, we hope that you will be home soon, or at least in time for your nephew’s birthday,_ she continued.  _You know how important it always has been for him to have the entire family at his party._  
  
Lance’s green eyes narrowed.  His nephew’s birthday was less than two months away, and he would be two.  Far too young to know, or care, whether everyone was at his birthday or not.  He read on.  
  
 _Despite some early frost_ , she wrote in her fine, clear hand, _the roads are still clear and we’re hoping to take a trip before the passes close._ The paper crinkled a little as his fingers clenched, and he smoothed it out, impatiently.  _Your father longs to visit my parents again, and hopes to convince your uncle and his family to accompany us, as it’s been far too long since we had a true family vacation._  
  
Lance set the paper down, breathing hard.  His parents had eloped as youngsters, there had no contact between his parents and his mother’s family since then, years before his birth.  All he knew was that they lived far away, on the other side of the mountains.  
  
 _I hope you can make it in time for your nephew’s birthday_ , she wrote.  _If you do, we hope you can extend your stay and accompany us.  Please take care of yourself, and let us know if the climate there agrees with you.  We all miss you very much._  
  
Lance sat back and folded the letter carefully, his mother’s words swirling through his mind, trying to calm his racing heart.  They were leaving, they were leaving the City Lance had been born and raised in, the City ruled by his uncle, and his grandfather before him, and his great-granduncle before him, back seven generations.  The threat was too big to ignore, and they were leaving.  Soon.  By his nephew’s birthday.  
  
He unfolded the paper and read it a second time, then a third.  He could almost hear her low, smooth voice, see her warm smile, her brown eyes.  For a moment the urge to leave, to pack his things and make his way home with all possible haste overwhelmed him.  He rubbed his forehead, feeling the sweat that had sprung at his temples and thought of everything he’d learned about the Richardsons, the danger his family was in, his mother’s face, his nephew, who had only been a infant when he’d left last year.  He wiped his face, breathing deeply, then drew out his own dwindling stash of paper and started to write.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Lance’s door was ajar, but Chris still tapped on it, waited for him to answer before poking his head through the doorway.  His eyes were dark and unreadable, but his smile was warm.  
  
“What are you doing back so early?” Lance asked.  He didn’t care about the answer, not really.  He couldn’t stop the smile he felt stretching across his face.  He hadn’t seen Chris in three days.  
  
Chris shrugged, elaborately casual.  “Wanted to get something to eat before leaving for work,” he said.  “Saw your light on.”  He indicated the paper on Lance’s desk with a raised eyebrow.  “News?”  
  
“Yeah, a letter from my mother,” Lance replied.  He quirked an eyebrow, grimly.  “I think I know where Brian Richardson is.”  
  
Chris’s eyebrows went up.  “Ah,” he said.  “Well.  Have you eaten?”  Lance shook his head.  “Well, why don’t I get us something, and you can tell me about it before I have to leave.”  His smile was slow and sweet, and Lance smiled back, feeling his spirits lift.  
  
“I’ll be right there,” he said, and Chris nodded, tapping again on the door as he headed down the hall.  Lance listened to him go, smiling a little when he heard the rattle of a pot, the sound of drawers being opened and closed.  
  
It had been weeks since they’d had any time alone together.  He was busy, gathering information in the upper steppe, and Chris spent every minute he wasn’t working or sleeping at various of the lower steppe Yards, talking to people, rallying the resistance, making sure people were on the same page.  It was taking all their time and energy but they were so close, and now, with almost certain confirmation that both Howie and Brian were far from this City, the time to strike would be very soon.  
  
But for all their business, once in a while Chris would leave the Yard early, and Lance would come home early, and these shared meals in the small hours of the morning had become all they had.  But when their revolution was over . . .  
  
Lance shook himself out of this reverie, gathered his thoughts, and bent to write.  This wouldn’t take too long.  
  
 _Dear Mother_ , he started.  _I was grateful to receive your letter, and to hear all the news.  I was surprised to hear that you’ve had frost already.  Here the weather remains very warm, although I know winter will be on us in a few short weeks._   He carefully splattered ink, tiny dots, under the word “weeks.”  
  
He paused, chewing on the tip of his pen, his mind racing.  _I think that the climate here agrees with me, and I feel better than I have ever felt in my life.  I’ve met some interesting people, and we’ve been working steadily.  We expect to be very, very busy, very soon._  
  
He read over what he’d written, and took a deep breath.  _Please tell the family that I’m sorry I won’t be able to visit this Fall,_ he wrote, and his hand only shook a little.  _I hope we will all see each other soon, but soon the busy season at my job will begin, and while I miss you all very much, I feel like I need to stay here._   He splattered more ink under the words “people” and “job.”  
  
Lance let his eyes travel around his tiny room once more, the thick rug over the cold stone floor, the colorful wall hanging next to the door.  The scent of something good came drifting from the kitchen, leftover soup from dinner and some sort of bread, and the sounds of Chris rustling around in there, tapping out rhythms with silverware, made him smile.  Chris was never able to be still.  
  
He bent once more to his letter.  _Very soon, things will be more settled, and when they are I hope you will visit me here, in my new home.  Please give my love to everyone._  
  
He signed his name and carefully printed his mother’s name and address on the outside of the envelope.  He sealed it, even though he knew the guards would open and read it, and placed it on the shelf so he wouldn’t forget it in the morning.  
  
“Hey,” Chris said from the doorway.  “There’s soup ready.”  
  
Lance moved toward him, smiling.  “Thanks.”  
  
“No problem.”  Chris’s eyes were dark, serious.  “Everything okay at home?”  
  
Lance moved closer to him.  “Yeah,” he said, with a little smile.  He glanced around the little room, and back to Chris.  “Everything’s good.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	35. Thirty-four

Thirty-four  
  
 _By her own radiant light, through sun and moon . . ._  
John Milton, Comus  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
She had once played princess with her little sister, dreaming of marrying a handsome prince who would adore her and surround her with luxuries.  Beautiful clothing in lavish fabrics tailored just for her, servants to ensure that her hair and nails were always perfect, that her makeup was flawless, that she was always beautiful.  She sometimes thought, grimly now after all that had happened, that her infatuation with Justin might have been much more about what his wealth and position could give her than who and what he was.  Or had been.  Her thoughts were bleak, but the serene expression on her face did not change.  
  
She half-reclined, carefully casual on the burgundy velvet couch, checking with a flick of her eyes that her body was displayed to its very best advantage.  The peach colored silk was little more than a long scarf, curling gauzy and almost translucent around her neck, snaking snugly over each breast before winding around her waist, fastened with a cinch ring and trailing gracefully behind her when she moved.  The silk was two shades darker around her hips, clinging to her bottom and cinched in back by the same ring.  There was nothing on her body covered by more than four square inches of fabric, and what was covered was really only shaded, revealing the deeper tone of her nipples, the shadow between her legs.  She had all the opulent clothing she could have ever longed for now.  The royal brothel made certain that the concubines were perfectly, glitteringly displayed at all times, for whenever any of the Richardson brothers or high command chose to visit.  
  
When Joey had accompanied the kitchen drudge who brought their afternoon meal, he had whispered to her that they could expect a visit from one of the brothers that evening.  He’d overheard a conversation, part of a post-council session between Kevin, AJ and Nick, but wasn’t able to ascertain which of them would be visiting the concubinage, only that at least one would.  She had just enough time alone in the wash room to pull the four amazingly tiny double edged razor tips from inside her sandal, and glue them carefully to the inside of the index and second fingernail on each hand.  
  
They were small and thin but astonishingly sharp.  She’d had her doubts when Joey had passed them to her last week, carefully hidden between her plate and the silver platter her meal had arrived on.  They seemed so small, and too fragile, but when she’d tested one out on a thick slice of beef when no one had been looking, she had blinked in amazement at the long, deep cut the tiny razor made.  On fragile, thin human skin it would do amazing damage, and in the right place, over an artery perhaps, would bring death quickly and quietly if her aim was true.  
  
Her fingers toyed idly with the ends of the silk, languidly running it between her long, slender fingers, hiding the deadly razors in plain sight.  Nobody looking at her, stretched out against the velvet lounge, would see anything but an expanse of smooth golden skin, artfully tousled hair, full lips and smoky, seductive eyes.  No one would see the half inch flash of dull silver jutting out from beneath her tapered fingernails.  She waited and kept her breathing even, and if the nerves pounding through her veins made her cheeks flush a little, made her nipples peak through the thin silk, then, so much the better.  
  
For a desperate moment she hoped it wouldn’t be AJ.  In the years she’d been trapped in the royal brothel she had never known him to come to the quarters to pick out a woman.  Once in a while he had the brothel master escort a woman to his quarters deep within the bowels of the castle, near the dungeon and torture chambers that were his chosen realm.  None of the women so selected had ever returned to the brothel quarters, but Britney had once seen Christina in one of the hallways, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the kitchen slop buckets.  Her face had been scarred, horribly disfigured, one side heavily seamed and pulled into a permanent grimace.  One of her eyes was milky blue and blinded, and her hair, her long and glorious ash-blonde hair, was gone.  Her good eye had met Britney’s horrified gaze and the ruined mouth had stretched into a sort of smile before the cook had snarled at her.  She’d dropped her head and moved away, and nausea had rolled in Britney’s stomach as she realized that Christina was walking with a heavy limp, both legs bowed and crooked.  She wondered sickly how long AJ had kept Christina in his dank, filthy chambers, and then she wondered how Christina had survived at all.  
  
She calmed the flutter of terror in her stomach with the ease of long practice, and slid the silk through her fingertips again.  The candlelight barely winked off the dull steel beneath her fingernails and she smiled, dreamily.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	36. Thirty-five

Thirty-five  
  
 _World-losers and world-forsakers,_  
 _On whom the pale moon gleams_  
Arthur William Edgar O’Shaughnessy, _Ode_  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Another meeting had not gone well, and Nick swore in frustration as he swung through the upper levels of the castle’s bright corridors.  Between Brian and Howie’s letters that insisted everything was just fine and Kevin’s paranoia about secret organizations and whispers of resistence, the fine mood he’d left the Yard in had been completely ruined.  
  
Nick was a cheerful and simple sort of man by nature.  He left scheming to Brian, paranoia to Kevin, and keeping the populace cowed to AJ.  His own responsibilities involved more direct interaction with the general populace -- he kept the guard running smoothly and made sure they all attended his classes in the new Yard he’d had built in the upper steppe, and oversaw the oaths from citizens wanting to swear fealty.  To his eyes there were no indications that resistence was brewing.  There never was when his family took a new City.  There never would be.  
  
He had a deep need for approval, and since it rarely came from the heads of his Family he looked for it elsewhere.  He considered his time in the Yard as a self-styled master to be the best part of each day, followed closely by mealtimes and visits to the royal brothel.  And after another infuriating session with his brothers, he knew the only way to salvage this day was with a visit to the women’s quarters.  
  
He nodded curtly to the guards posted at the entrance to the suite as he approached, thinking for a moment how unnecessary it was to keep them there.  Had he ordered that?  Probably, back in the beginning, when there had still been some concern about resistence.  Enough time had passed for that not to be an issue, he thought idly, noting that neither guard returned his smile but kept their faces stern and their eyes forward, just as he’d trained them.  Well, they looked good there, standing at attention in the black and blue uniform of the Richardson royal guards.  He nodded at them as he approached the door and the one on the left opened the door for him, still carefully keeping his gaze forward.  
  
Nick knew that Kevin kept tabs on how often he visited the women’s quarters, how long he stayed, which of the women he favored.  Kevin considered it a weakness, he knew, and often made sneering little remarks about Nick’s lack of discipline.  He felt the resentment curl tension around his jaw again, but he consoled himself with the thought that Kevin just needed to get laid himself.  His good mood reasserted itself as he paused in the doorway, turning to the guard and lowering his voice to a confidential murmur.  “I’ll be sure to tell you which ones I had, so you can tell my brother,” he whispered, then laughed delightedly at the stain of color on the guard’s cheeks.  He let the door close behind him and swung down the corridor, smiling.  Nick loved being right.  He felt better already.  
  
He entered the main room with a smile on his face and almost clapped his hands with glee at the choices before him.  Beautiful, young, all of them looking at him with soft smiles and inviting eyes as the brothel master greeted him, asked quietly if he required anything or anyone special today.  Nick’s eyes landed on Britney, displayed seductively on a burgundy chaise that made her skin glow golden beneath the sheer material barely covering her.  He shouldn't, he knew, he had just visited her recently and Kevin would take notice if he chose her again.  He wavered for a moment, remembering another girl in another City, a girl with light brown hair and green eyes.  He’d almost been in love with her before AJ had called her down to his dungeon and ruined her forever.  But now his eyes were drawn back to Britney's golden skin, the delicate, clever way her fingers moved through the sheer scarves trailing from her body.  
  
“No,” he answered briefly, his eyes intent on the blonde girl as she raised smoky eyes to his.  He imperiously held out his hand to her, and didn’t even hear the brothel master’s response as she uncoiled herself and swayed easily toward him.  She ignored his outstretched hand but edged slowly into the circle of his arm, her hands languidly sliding the edge of her scarf between her fingers, her dark eyes huge as they looked up into his face from beneath a thick fringe of black lashes.  He wrapped his hand around her small waist, his fingers already stroking greedily at the smooth, warm skin exposed there.  He felt his body tighten in anticipation as she smiled slowly, offering a glimpse of a wet tongue between soft, pink lips.  
  
“I’ll take her to my rooms,” he said thickly, aiming the phrase at the master but unable to look away from Britney as she edged closer, tilting her head so her hair brushed softly across her breasts, sliding against his hip with her own.  He spoke over the master’s whispered protest about security.  “Just send someone for her, um, when the watch changes.”  That wouldn’t be for almost four hours, he thought foggily, plenty of time.  
  
She walked closely beside him as they made their way down the corridor to what had once been one of the Timberlake boy’s rooms, offering him occasional glimpses of the gentle sway of her breasts beneath the thin peach-colored silk.  Nick was fond of all the women in the royal brothel, but Britney was something special.  He still remembered his first time with her with a smiling sort of fondness.  She’d been a part of the Timberlake household in some way, a distant cousin perhaps, and she’d been a virgin, frightened and trying to hide it on that first victorious night after the invasion.  Nick tilted his head a little to watch the smooth sway of her back, the golden curves of her buttocks.  She was beautiful, a natural seductress, and he considered the regular bribe he paid the brothel master to keep her from AJ’s lair money well spent.  
  
Her hair was scented with something vaguely sweet, like honey, and he kept drawing deep breaths of it, feeling his senses inflame at her nearness.  Pressure was already pooling in his groin and he was almost running by the time he got to the bedroom, fingers grasping her elbow as he pulled her in and slammed the door hard behind them, throwing the bolt with a loud click that brought a low chuckle from her.  It was the first sound she’d made, and he grinned as he pulled her into his arms, his hands frantic against her skin.  
  
Ah, but she was more vocal now, he thought fuzzily as his palms explored the satiny length of her back and curved over her hips and buttocks, warm and smooth beneath the sheer silk.  His fingers flirted with the edge of the material at the very top of her thighs, running a finger along the delicate curve of her bottom and she gave a little gasp as his teeth gently pinched her earlobe, arching her body into his and pressing her round, firm breasts push against his chest.  She slid like a snake in his arms, moving languidly against his pelvis, his stomach, and then she lifted her arms and arched her neck with a little moan that went into his ears and splintered straight down his spine.  Nick groaned brokenly, then pulled her head back and bent down to her mouth.  
  
Her lips tasted every bit as soft and lush as they’d looked and he lapped at them like a starving man until she parted them and invited his tongue inside.  He felt her sharp nails in his hair, stroking a biting pattern over his scalp as her tongue tangled with his, and he growled her name as he gathered her closer, his hands scrabbling to uncover her as he pulled her to the bed.  
  
It was closer than he thought and caught him unexpectedly against the back of his thighs, making him stumble and fall awkwardly on his back to the firm mattress.  She landed like a cat on top of him, smiling slyly as she straddled his pelvis and slowly brought her groin down to meet his.  He groaned, arching helplessly up and she leaned forward to take both of his wrists in her hands, pushing them above his head and holding them there, her body spread over his and her face inches away.  
  
“Why don’t you just let me take care of you,” she whispered and there was that accent, that faint eastern drawl that made him crazy.  She licked her lips delicately and tilted her head, her eyes huge in the semi dark room, her skin seeming to glow.  “How ‘bout you just close your eyes.  I know what you need,” she murmured with a devastating half-smile, and he nodded eagerly, arching his body up to feel more of her, his mouth reaching up to hers.  She leaned forward and ran her small, pointed tongue across his bottom lip, her teeth nibbling cunningly, and he closed his eyes and panted.  
  
He kept them closed, with his wrists crossed above his head even when she released them, and she made short work of the buttons on his shirt and the drawstring of his pants.  He opened them again when he felt her warm body hover over his naked skin, his skin prickling and his back arching as he strained to get closer.  Her mouth closed wetly over his, her tongue sweeping under his upper lip and sliding across his own before she backed away.  Her eyes were dark and sly and promised everything.  “Close your eyes, Nick,” she whispered as her lips moved down his throat and feathered across his chest toward his left nipple, and he did.  Her soft blonde hair tickled across his ribs, a counterpoint to the shockingly vibratory pattern her sharp little nails made on his thighs, and he widened his legs, feeling her settle between them.  There, finally were her heated mouth and moist tongue, lapping delicately right where he wanted it the most.  
  
He groaned her name, barely able to hear his own voice over the rushing and pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.  His hands clasped each other over his head and he writhed beneath her clever tongue as she sucked him down deeper.  Her nails scratched sharply on his inner thighs, moving slowly toward his testicles and he opened his eyes helplessly, needing to see her dark eyes on his as her mouth worked his cock, her smooth ass in the air, her breasts brushing his lightly furred thighs, nipples distended.  She opened her own eyes slowly, her lush mouth reddened and bruised as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked him down, and he gave a strangled groan as he thrust up, watching her take more, her fingers moving up to cup at his aching balls.  Fire crawled through his belly and he gasped, toes curling, fists tangled in the sheet.  Her smile was almost gentle, her eyes gleaming as her fingers scraped across his balls and the pain of the sharp orgasm slammed into him, turning his vision red as he came.  
  
But nothing happened, and the shuddering pain hit him almost simultaneously with the realization of the failed ejaculation.  He sat halfway up in confusion and the beginnings of alarm, and even when Britney bounded gracefully to her feet, baring her teeth at him in a feral mockery of her usual soft smile, her hands dripping blood, he still didn’t comprehend.    
  
“I’m glad it was you.  Death to all of you fucking Richardson _pigs_ ,” she hissed, and it wasn’t until he looked down at himself, his cock still twitching and his testicles hanging in bloody, useless shreds, did he understand.  In utter shock he watched his own blood pump steadily out of the deep cuts in his groin, and when she laughed he roared in rage and betrayal and sprang at her.  Her fingers were curved like claws and she went right for his face, but his fist stopped her cold, plunging her body to the left and snapping her head on her long delicate neck.  She went down and he kicked her hard, feeling her ribs crack brutally beneath his bare foot, and she didn’t make a sound as she crumbled.  He fell heavily on her and felt her fingers claw clumsily at his throat, and now he couldn’t make any sounds at all and he couldn’t breathe.  But he continued to pound at her motionless and bloody body until his own strength failed him.  
  
When the guards finally broke down the door the room was silent and covered with blood, and in the corner on the floor were two bloody bodies so entangled it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	37. Thirty-six

Thirty-six  
  
 _The moon is down._  
William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It had been years now but the dream where time stopped still came often to him.  It was a black and white nightmare populated with frozen stick figures facing an opening in a wall made of stone where something dreadful and terrifying lurked.  There was the scrape of leather boots against the dry and dusty road, a distorted jangle of metal, and then the scene erupted into color and noise and Justin was running, falling, struggling futilely in ropes that bound him around the neck, against huge hands that pushed him onto his face, ripped at his clothes.  He jolted awake with a silent gasp.  His terror gagged him, and the thudding of his heart echoed in his ears.  
  
He lay absolutely still and held his breath, eyes squeezed shut, afraid to move, listening to the silence.  He heard the steady breathing of the man beside him, and outside a gentle ocean breeze danced through the glass tubes on the wind chimes beside the back door.  He looked up, still rigid from fear, dizzy from the exhaustion and tension of a long day of plans and preparation.  The ceiling of the little attic spun around him, and for a moment he seemed to be drifting high in the sky like a seagull, looking down at the City below him as though into a deep pool of water.  Far to the north tall mountains spiked jaggedly upwards, hiding the smooth golden plains that he knew were beyond them, somewhere.  The stars glinted far beneath him like shiny bits of sand, making him dizzy.  
  
Beside him JC shifted and curled closer, and the warmth and feel of his body righted Justin’s world.  He moved closer and measured JC’s smooth, taut form with his own, stroking his hand down JC’s shoulders and back, curving over the mound of his buttocks, stretching to touch as much of him as possible.  He buried his nose into his neck, smelling the familiar sweetness of JC’s skin as he pulled the thick blanket closer around them.  JC’s hand slid gently up Justin’s arm, over his shoulder, drifted across and pressed into his chest, feeling Justin’s heart as it drummed like that of a small, hunted animal.  His eyes opened, glinting blue silver in the dim shadows as he pulled Justin closer to him.  
  
“Block it out,” he murmured against Justin’s neck.  “Just a couple more days, and it’ll be over.”  
  
“Will we be free?”  Justin’s voice was barely a whisper, almost inaudible, and JC’s arms tightened around him, curling him into his body, sliding one long thin leg between Justin’s.  
  
“We’ll be safe,” JC answered softly, his strong, graceful fingers moving down Justin’s body, kneading, stroking, soothing.  “We’ll be free.”  His brown hair trailed across Justin’s shoulders as he moved over him, and Justin’s fingers clutched hard on the long muscles of JC’s back, tightening until his arms shook.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	38. Thirty-seven

Thirty-seven  
  
 _Though the heart be still as loving,_  
 _And the moon be still as bright._

George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron  
 _So, We’ll Go No More A-Roving_  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Chris’s mother very rarely left the safety of Joey’s house.  Chris, and often the others, were scrupulous about inviting her out with them, or making sure someone was around to accompany her if she wanted to go to the market, but generally she was content to stay inside.  
  
The little house was full of activity that evening.  Justin and JC were in the kitchen with Beverly, ostensibly helping her clean up after their evening meal but really, as she put it, “just getting in my way.”  Joey and Lance were examining the final shipment of black-market weapons Lance had obtained and discussing the best way to disseminate them among the other Yard groups spread around the lower steppe.  JC suggested getting one of the younger Yard students to visit each Yard early in the morning to tell them of the shipment, and have each Yard send a representative to pick the weapons up.  Justin hummed a little song, making Chris’s mother smile.  Joey murmured in conversation with Lance, voicing concerns about the explosives still locked in the old armory.  “We need to get access to those explosives, we need to get to them before the Richardsons can use them against us . . .”  Justin said something quiet about not worrying about the explosives, keeping focused on the things they could control.  
  
Chris watched it all from his perch at the end of the long dining room table, occasionally contributing to the discussions, the banter, the decision making.  He enjoyed the way Justin and JC moved around the small kitchen, handing each other utensils, moving easily in and out of each other’s space, bantering with his mother and making her smile and swat at them with wooden spoons.  He listened without watching to Lance’s quiet, deep voice, and Joey’s responses as they discussed the weapons, the battle, the plans.  It was oddly soothing, like music, the rise and fall of the voices, the mixture of serious discussion and laughter, the muffled clink of the metal swords, the scrape and rattle of the cooking implements.  He took it all in, appreciating this moment of peace and relative harmony with an intensity that had everything to do with his hidden fears over the upcoming battle.  But mostly he watched his mother.  
  
She was much improved from when Chris had first returned home, when he’d arrived on Joey’s doorstep frantic for news to find his sister gone and their mother hiding fearfully in the cellar.  She spent most days in the main parts of the house now, doing the household chores and peering out the window as the world of the lower steppe passed by.  But she still wasn’t the woman who had singlehandedly raised Chris and his younger sister, had held them together through their nomadic life when Chris was a boy, who had led them here, to this City of warmth and security.  The invasion, losing the home she’d worked so hard to make, the abduction of his sister, had broken something deep inside her.  
  
He watched her carefully place the clean pots back in their cupboard, neatly folding the damp towel and smiling gently at Justin as he helped her, and remembered those same hands smoothing over his hair when he was a boy, always loving.  She was a little stooped now, and there was gray in her dark hair and lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there before the invasion, before Chris had left to travel and teach.  She had used to laugh a great deal, even when there wasn’t much to laugh about.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard his mother laugh.  
  
Right now, Chris noticed that she was carefully avoiding looking into the dining room where Lance and Joey had wrapped and carefully stacked the black market short swords.  It was almost as if they didn’t exist.  
  
Chris waited until she was done bustling around the kitchen to rise and wrap his arms around her from the back, hooking a chin over her shoulder as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek.  “Love you, mom,” he murmured, and smiled when she swatted at him and wondered out loud what he was up to, what he wanted, buttering her up like this.  
  
“What I want,” he said easily, spinning her around to face him, “is to take a pretty lady out tonight.  There’s music tonight in the baker’s market, I heard about it today.”  It was to be a large and seemingly spontaneous party, and was devised as a final test of the Richardson guard.  It hadn’t been approved beforehand, but the guard had become increasingly lax about putting such gatherings down.  
  
She’d gone still before him, her face downcast so he could only see the curve of her cheekbones, the shadow of her eyelashes so much like his own, like his baby sister’s.  He tightened his arms, hugging her close to him.  
  
“Music, mom.”  He smiled persuasively.  “Maybe dancing, and those really good jam pastries and cider . . .” he trailed off, bending a little to look into her face.  “What do you say?”  
  
She blinked up at him, apprehensively.  “The guard . . .” she whispered, and he responded just as quietly.  
  
“You don’t need to be afraid of them.  I would never let anything happen to you.”  He was rewarded with a tremulous smile, and he relaxed when she nodded.  
  
“I think we should all go.”  That was Lance’s voice, spoken with his usual calm authority.  “All of us.  Justin too.”  
  
Chris looked across the dining room at Justin, who had moved to the table and was wrapping the last of the short swords.  His face was completely calm, and he nodded a little without taking his eyes off the long, shining blade.  The metal caught the lamplight and reflected against his face, making it glow oddly for a moment.  He seemed limned in light, shining and out of place at the small table in the dark, shabby room.  Then he flipped the last of the wrapping cloth over the blade and tightened it, and it was just Justin again, his face utterly calm and his smile small as he looked up.  
  
“Sure,” he said easily, as if going out to public gatherings was something he did every day.  “Let’s all go.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	39. Thirty-Eight

Thirty-eight  
  
 _Dancing out with the moonlight knight . . ._  
Gabriel, Banks, Collins, Rutherford, Hackett  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Compared to the gatherings in the old days, before the Richardsons, this one was small indeed.  The open area behind the baker’s market was usually used for storage, barrels of flour and sugar stacked as high as the buildings.  Tonight they’d all been piled against the walls, and there were torches flickering on standing sconces that made the wide space flicker romantically.  The stone buildings surrounding the area amplified the music of the three person band, adding depth to the sound of the simple instruments.  A long board stretched between two barrels served as a buffet table and from the looks of it every one of the hundred or so people gathered had brought something to share.    
  
There was a reckless air to the atmosphere, Chris thought as he made his way through the crowd.  The guards at the posts they’d carefully skirted on their way here had contained dozing and inattentive guardsmen, and one had been empty completely.  They had their own lookouts posted to give warning should any of the guard approach, but those gathered had the determined gaiety of people who knew that things were changing, would change, one way or the other, very, very soon.  And they were ready for it, Chris thought as he was handed a mug of beer, slapped on the back.  They would challenge the Richardsons for their City and blood would be shed.  But for tonight there would be music, and dancing, remembrance of better days and hope for the future.  
  
He drained his mug and was immediately handed another one by another lower steppe Yard woman.  From the north side, Chris remembered as he accepted with a smile and a clink of mugs.  Joey had delivered swords to those gathered in that Yard a few days ago, had reported that they were more than ready.  By the gleam in the woman’s eye, the ferocity of her smile, Chris thought Joey was right.  
  
A pie stuffed with meat and vegetables and wafting a mouth-watering smell was placed in his other hand, and he smiled his thanks at JC, laughing a little to see him wolfing down a pie of his own.  
  
“That good, huh?” he questioned in amusement, and JC nodded happily, his tongue flickering out to catch the juice before it could travel down his chin.  
  
“This is,” JC waved his hands around, encompassing the music, the food, the drink, the flickering light, the dancers.  “This is the best,” he finished simply, and Chris smiled in understanding.  The atmosphere was contagious.  
  
“It’s only the beginning, JC,” he said quietly.  “After tomorrow night the celebration will cover the whole City.  And he,” he indicated Justin, making his way slowly towards them, being stopped every few steps to smile, speak, shake someone’s hand, “will be right at the center of it, back where he belongs, and things will be they way they should be.”  
  
JC’s smiled dimmed a little as he watched Justin’s slow progress.  “The way things should be,” he repeated quietly, and Chris frowned a little.  JC’s eyes were distant, as though they were seeing something far, far away.  Chris opened his mouth, then shut it again, abruptly, as Justin finally made his way to their side.  
  
Justin had been quiet lately, silent and distracted.  Chris had put it down to the strain he was under, that they were all under, watching and training, waiting for the right time.  There had been an incident a few weeks ago, some people new to the Yard whose eyes had grown huge when they’d seen him.  They’d stammered, and stared, and called him by his royal title, and while Justin had responded graciously, casually, Chris had seen him blanch when they gave to him the title that had belonged to his father.  
  
But he looked more relaxed tonight, Chris thought, happier than he’d seen him in a long time.  Perhaps he had accepted his destiny and who he was, and was ready to put the past behind him.  
  
Justin handed one of the two mugs in his hand to JC, and accepted a bite of meat pie in return.  The smile he gave JC was small, intimate and meant only for him.  After a moment it broadened to include Chris, and Justin’s eyes were bright as he chewed and swallowed before saying something cheerful about the band, the music.  He swayed in place a little, keeping time, and his mouth curved wistfully as he watched the dancers moving energetically in the center of the square.  JC watched him, his eyes warm.  Chris left them to their unspoken communication, loaded a plate with food and went in search of his mother.  
  
He found her seated beside Lance at one of the small tables set up around the edge of the clearing, having what looked like an animated conversation.  His heart squeezed a little at the sight of her smile, the lively movements of her hands, the way Lance’s head bent attentively to her.  For a moment the love inside him was so strong and painful he thought his heart would burst.  
  
“Whatever he’s trying to convince you of, do not believe him,” Chris said severely, plopping himself and the plate of food across from them.  “You know better to believe an Outsider,” he said with mock sternness to his mother, ignoring the flash of Lance’ white teeth as he laughed.  “No matter how handsome he is.”  
  
Her eyes were gleeful as she faced him, the smile lighting up her whole face as she reached for the pastries on the plate between them.  “But we were talking about you, honey,” she said slyly, and there it was, the bright, contagious laugh he’d heard all too seldom in the last couple of years.  She giggled in mirth, collapsing sideways against Lance’s shoulder and Chris felt his face heat up as the two of them grinned at him, even as he stifled the lump in his throat at the sight.  The music sounded louder, the light from the moon grew brighter, and Lance’s smile lit up the night as he rose from the table.  He drained his mug with a quick toss, his adam’s apple moving smoothly and Chris blinked, tearing his eyes away.  
  
“I’ll go relieve Joey on lookout,” Lance said, his smile warm at Chris before turning to include Beverly.  “And when he gets here he’s going to want to dance with you,” he said with a grin.  “So you’d best prepare yourself.”  He kissed the top of her head before moving away and getting lost in the darkness beyond the torchlight, and when Chris turned back to his mother she was smiling softly at him.  
  
“He’s one in a million, honey,” she said quietly, and he could do nothing but nod.  Often his mother seemed vague, lost in her own little world, but tonight her eyes were sharp, imploring, and the hand that reached across the table gripped his hard.  “Tomorrow,” she started, and then hesitated, swallowing convulsively.  He turned his hand so he could hold hers.  “Please,” she started again, and he was dismayed to see the tears gathering in her eyes.  “Just, be careful, Chris.  I can’t think that this is worth the risk.  You have so much to live for . . .”  
  
She trailed off and he leaned forward, covering her hand with both of his, cradling it gently between his warm palms.  “I want to set things right, mom.  I’m doing it for you, for Taylor, for everything you’ve ever fought to give us, to give me.”  He tightened his hands, willing her to believe him.  “I have a place for you to hide tomorrow, where you’ll be safe.  I . . . I will never let anything happen to you,” he said softly.  
  
They sat together, a small circle of silence surrounded by music, voices, light.  “You’re a good boy,” she said finally, and her smile was wry.  “A pain in my ass, but a good sort of pain.”  They smiled at each other.  
  
“I have something for you, when we get home,” she said finally.  “I made a flag, like the old ones, for when you take the palace back.”  He took a deep breath.  She’d been so evasive and afraid that he hadn’t realized that she’d been so aware of their plans, despite living in the same house as the conspirators.  “So you’ll have something right away to let everyone know that we’re free.”    
  
She hesitated, her eyes moving past Chris’s shoulder and he turned reflexively to look.  The space cleared for dancing was crowded with people, there was barely room to move, but through the densely packed mass he saw Justin dancing close to JC.  He was flushed and smiling, his hands easy on JC’s lean hips.  He looked heartbreakingly young, like he should be in a classroom instead of leading what was sure to be a violent and bloody revolution.  Young and happy and carefree, Chris thought bleakly.  Like a boy his age should look.  
  
His mother’s hand squeezed his and he looked back at her.  “I tried to give it to Justin, but he said you were the one who should have it,” she said simply, and his heart swelled at her smile.  “It’s going to be okay, Chris.  Now, dance with me, so I can be warmed up when Joey arrives.”  Chris grinned back at her, and put all thoughts of what was coming the next night away as he led her to the floor.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	40. Thirty-nine

Thirty-nine  
  
 _Over the mountains of the moon,_  
 _Down the Valley of the Shadow,_  
Edgar Allan Poe, _Eldorado_  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It would be tonight, and on this last morning Justin had woken very early.  He lay rigidly in the safety of his bed, cold with more than the usual pre-dawn chill, cold with tension and a confusing tangle of nervous emotions, dread and anticipation.  It was the slowly creeping sorrow that drove him up and away from JC’s comforting warmth, causing him to slide reluctantly out of their bed and cross the attic to the grilled vent that faced the ocean.  
  
He sat silent and motionless, arms clasped tightly around his knees as he waited for the faint glow to appear in the east, feeling the City he’d been born in slowly come to life.  The fishing fleet would be on its way back to dock, he thought, and the bread market would open soon and usually he would be in the Yard by now, practicing with his friends, his brothers, the people who had become family to him.  But there would be no Yard today.  He wondered if there ever would be for him, ever again.  
  
There was a slowly building urgency that had him pulling on his clothes and padding silently down the stairs.  He scrawled a short note saying he’d take care of getting both the bread and the fish, although they were in opposite directions, and that he’d be back for breakfast.  He marked it with his initial and a small smiling face, knowing JC would likely be the first to see it.  Then he let himself silently out the back door, taking the long dark alleyway through the lower steppe and out to the main avenue.  
  
Already the air was warm, the sluggish late summer humidity never completely leaving the packed dirt and paving stones of the main streets.  There were a few people about, hurrying on errands of their own in the pre-dawn dimness, and none of them spared Justin a glance.  The bread market at least was open by now but still Justin walked slowly, hands in the pockets of his cotton pants, head up, senses alert.  His eyes missed nothing.  
  
Things were supposed to seem smaller to an adult than they had seemed to a child, but the City wall was higher than ever before, the new stones at the top a sharp contrast to the aged ones beneath them.  In some places the mortar had cracked, peeling from between the large blocks.  There was mossy greenery spreading at the very top.  The houses he passed in the gradually lightening gloom were mostly empty, and those that were not were mostly uncared for.  There was an air of sullen hostility in the slowly rotting thatch roofs, the occasional boarded up windows that made him sad, and nostalgic.  
  
His parents hadn’t allowed him to go to the lower steppe without a guard, and Justin remembered threatening to tie his little brother up and dump him there at night when he’d annoyed him, just to hear him gasp in fright.  The truth was that his parents hadn’t allowed him to go anywhere outside the palace grounds without some sort of escort.  It hadn’t been because their City was unsafe, it had been because they wanted so much to protect him.  For the first time he thought of his family not with pain and guilt, but with love, with fondness and a gentle gratitude.  He continued his walk, his feet carrying him slowly through the main avenue of the lower steppe, to the opposite side of the City.    
  
He had not been to the City’s north gate since the morning of the Richardson invasion.  In the months since he and JC had left the dungeon there had been multiple opportunities to do so, but JC would always do something casually to prevent it.  He would switch errands with Justin, have him go to the wharf for the fresh fish and take Justin’s chore of getting the bread, and the accompanying news, himself.  Going to the bread market also meant scouting the front walls, the new guard posts, the military Yards, counting the number of guards and observing their routine.  And it meant passing the north gate, the main guard tower, and memories that were years old now but still vivid to Justin.  JC would do this easily, with a brief smile and a shrug that insisted it was no big deal.  Justin allowed JC to try to protect him, and loved him fiercely for it.  
  
But this last morning he didn’t want to allow JC to shield him.  His measured steps took him down the long slow curve of the lower steppe and up the gradually widening avenue leading to the north gate.  The gate was the same as he remembered it, towering over his head and guarded by grim-faced men in Richardson uniform.  But now there were guards in the tower, as there never had been in Justin’s lifetime, and the tall wooden doors were firmly closed and barred.  There would be another guard post on the outside, Justin knew, inspecting travelers and traders as they sought entrance.  But getting in to this City wasn’t the problem.  Getting out was.  
  
The light in the east cast a faint shadow around the corner of the guard tower.   Justin avoided the bored stares and idle insults of the guards as he traced his years-old path up the main avenue toward the middle steppe.  He kept his eyes on the dusty path that he’d been dragged up so long ago, and then he stopped in front of the small shop where he’d had his first and only encounter with Kevin and Brian Richardson.  
  
The shop was empty, its walls bearing the scars of old fire.  It looked like the thatch roof had been clumsily repaired some time ago, and then abandoned.  The door was boarded up, and when Justin stepped up to the window he saw that the table was gone and the room was completely empty.  He shakily released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  There was nothing there.  Nothing remained of the child he’d been.  
  
He stepped away and drew a deep, even breath before continuing up the avenue toward the already bustling bread market.    
  
The elderly woman behind the counter greeted him with a kind smile and a shrewd glance, and carefully chose the largest of the displayed loaves for him.  She wrapped it carefully in the thick paper, but when he held out the coins she closed her hand over his, wrapping her fingers tightly around his.  “You have the look of your mother,” she whispered to him, the creases in her face curving into a sweet smile.  “I will pray to the guardian for your safety tonight, and my sons, they are ready, and they fight with you.”  She patted his hand, wishing him a good morning in a normal tone of voice, and he left the market in a daze with the warm bread tucked securely under his arm.  
  
Head up, he caught sight of the palace unexpectedly as he turned the corner.  It looked almost unfamiliar from this angle, its light gray stone reflecting dully in the early morning light, Richardson banners limp on their staffs in the still air.  Justin looked at it for a long, silent moment, remembering breakfasts with his family on mornings just like this, lessons in the small schoolroom on the second floor, the hours he had spent watching the Yards from his third floor bedroom window.  There had been Timberlakes in that building for generations until a few months ago, when Joey and Chris had helped him escape from the dungeon.  
  
He heaved a shaky sigh, and refused to consider whether or not he’d be the last.  No matter what the outcome of tonight’s events, despite the drastic change in this City under the Richardsons’ rule, it had prospered under his family’s rule for generations, and it would probably bear their name no matter who ruled it.  He felt a bleak satisfaction at the thought.  
  
He took the long way back, through the lower portion of the middle steppe and back down to the wharf.  The fleet was already in, dumping the night’s catch to the market.  Justin waited, the bread still warm under his arm until he saw a familiar figure detach itself from the disembarking crew and climb briskly toward him.  Chris’s face was impassive, but his eyes crackled with adrenaline and he almost bounced with coiled energy.  He smiled when he caught sight of Justin, and Justin grinned back, Chris’s energy, as always, infectious.  Chris clapped him on the shoulder, turning him back towards home.  
  
“I already got the fish if that’s what you’re here for,” he said, and raised his eyebrows at the freshly wrapped bread under Justin’s arm.  “Hey, did you go up to the middle steppe?” he asked, and Justin flushed a little as he fell into step beside him.  
  
“Yeah, thought I’d give JC a break, let him sleep in.”  
  
Chris nodded, his eyes shrewd.  “I’ll forgo the snide remark just begging to made there, and move on to the important things.  Did you see anything interesting?”    
  
Justin shrugged, thinking of the high walls, the tower, the empty lower steppe shop.  He thought of the woman in the bread market and the other carefully averted eyes he’d seen pass over him as he’d walked.  He thought of the palace, glowing dimly in the morning sun.  
  
“Nothing worth mentioning,” he said easily.  “The old woman in the bread market wished us luck, and the guards don’t seem to suspect anything.”  
  
“See any trade coming in the gate?”  
  
“No.  Everything was locked up tight.”  They continued up the avenue in silence.  
  
“Are you okay, Justin?  You ready for tonight?” Chris asked quietly, and Justin slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tight for a moment.  He felt Chris lean into him, clapping him awkwardly on the back and Justin gulped at the lump in his throat.  
  
“Yeah, I am ready,” he said huskily.  He realized he was flexing the fingers of his right hand, already eager for a weapon, for things to get started, for his life to truly begin.  “Let’s get this show on the road, huh?”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	41. Forty

Forty  
  
 _No moon outlives its leaving night,_  
 _No sun its day._  
William D. Snodgrass, _Orpheus_  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It was late afternoon before silence descended on the little house.  Joey waited, seated in what had once been Kelly’s favorite chair in the living room, watching the shadows drift across the windows and floors like ghosts as the sun made its way across the sky.  He waited until there was silence from the attic upstairs, until Lance had left to meet a trader about some black market short swords, until Chris had taken his mother on a rare outing to the markets.  Then he waited a few more minutes, his eyes unfocused and his thoughts far, far away, before he rose and made his way slowly down the hallway.  
  
He and Kelly had been so thrilled with the small house when it had become available, just weeks before their wedding.  He paused at the junction of the long cool hallway and the kitchen, remembering how Kelly had gasped with delight, almost clapping her hands as she said “ _look, Joey, look, this huge kitchen and two, three bedrooms, and this big basement, so much room to grow . . ._ ”  He found himself smiling, remembering her huge grin and sparkling eyes, the way the sunlight streaming from the windows had made her dark hair shine as she’d tugged him down the hallway.  
  
The sun dropped behind the wall, and Joey’s memories faded with the light as the deep quiet of the house descended around him.  It had seemed so jaggedly empty in the first days after the invasion.  The very silence had seemed to echo, accusing and then mocking him, making him at once frantic to get away and unable to leave, even for a moment.    
  
On some level he’d known that he was in shock, that the battle and his family’s disappearance had left him adrift in some crucial way.  He’d been relieved to find Chris’s mother at his front door, happy to see a familiar face, to have someone to take care of who was even more damaged than himself.  A few days later it had been his old friend Jason who had knocked, his family dead in the fire that had burned his home, and who had stayed with Joey for over a month, trying to convince him to go with him when he took his chances over the City wall in the middle of the night.  “C’mon, Joe,” he’d said.  “You don’t have anything to lose, your family is gone too . . .”  Joey had stopped listening, refused to hear, turned his back.  He thought about Jason for a moment, remembering the sight of his battered body early the next morning as it hung by the main gates with the others who’d attempted to escape in the night.  He had been a good friend.  
  
Chris had returned from his travels only a few weeks later, quick eyed and quick tempered but controlled, overjoyed to find his mother safe and so grateful to Joey.  Joey had been so happy to see him, to offer Chris and his mother a relatively safe place in his house, thankful that their presence would help to keep the echoing silences at bay.  And it was Chris, a fellow Yardsman, someone who would help him make all of this chaos right.  And Chris had.  
  
And gradually the empty little house had filled with people.  They might not have been able to save Kelly, or Brianha, or Chris's sister Taylor, but they had gotten Justin and JC, had snatched them away from the very depths of hell and brought them into light.  And then they'd found Lance, who had brought a completion to their circle that they hadn't even known was lacking.  After all this time Joey was living with a family again, and it felt like both salvation and damnation.  
  
His steps echoed quietly as he made his way down the long stone hallway, past the small room that had once been Kelly’s sewing room, past the converted pantry that they had decorated so painstakingly before Briahna’s birth, to the doorway of the bright, westward-facing room that had belonged to the two of them.  He went in and sat on the edge of the bed, allowing himself to look, really look, for the first time in years.  
  
His wife’s hair brushes sat on the small dresser, untouched and covered in dust.  In the drawers were her clothes, both the everyday skirts and blouses that she’d worn at home and the finer linens for special occasions, and here, in the bottom drawer and carefully wrapped in fine tissue, the white dress she’d worn for their wedding.  The small jewelry box he’d given her for her birthday the first year they were married sat squarely on the corner of the dresser, also covered with a thick layer of dust.  All of Kelly’s things, right where she’d left them so many years ago.  He touched them gently, running his finger along the fine silver chain she’d worn on their wedding day, lifting one of her linen shirts to his face and inhaling deeply.  Dust, and the faint scent of cedar, and nothing else.  He closed his eyes and whispered her name, and there was only silence.  
  
His focus had shifted, he knew.  In the beginning the absence of his wife and child had been an open and bleeding wound, fueling his plans to tear the City apart until he found them.  He knew they had to be somewhere, either hiding or captured, prevented from coming home.  But time had passed, and his searches had proven fruitless.  And Joey still couldn’t think about the day of the invasion, of the clues that he’d refused to see right here in his home.  But over the years the rage and anger and grief had slowly ebbed.  
  
He knelt on the floor and drew out the small packing trunk that had held all of his own belongings when he’d moved into the house just days before their wedding.  He slowly dusted it off, his eyes wet and unfocused as he remembered the first time he’d carried it into the house.  He had been so full of anticipation, so happy.  
  
He opened it and carefully packed Kelly’s clothing, smoothing the wrinkles from the fine cloth, folding the tissue that lined her dresser drawers gently between the layers.  He placed her thin silver chain around his own neck, tucking it deeply beneath his shirt, and wrapped the remainder of her few pieces of jewelry in a silky, colorful scarf, placing them gently inside the trunk.  Then he tucked her jewelry box, brushes and shoes amongst the folds of linen and cotton.  He didn’t realize his face was wet until the tears dropped inside, making dark spots on the soft cloth.  
  
It was full dark now and Joey hesitated before picking up the small oak carving of the three of them from Kelly’s side of the dresser.  He didn’t need the lantern as his fingers traced the soft edges of his daughter’s wide-eyed face, the curve of Kelly’s smile.  He clenched it tightly in his hands for a moment, then turned away from the trunk, opening the small drawer beside the bed and placing the carving inside, beside his few personal items.  
  
When he’d finished he carried the trunk downstairs, placing it carefully in the corner of the basement, beside the crate of Brianha’s clothes and toys that they’d moved to make room for Lance.  He covered them both with the crates of special linens, sewing supplies, things they’d carried down to the basement to make room for the people who lived in the house now.  For the people who lived, he thought, grateful through his slowly falling tears for the people who had cocooned him as his denial and rage had softened to deep sorrow and a gentle regret for what could have been.  
  
He spent a few more minutes alone in the dark basement, until his tears dried and he could breathe without hitching.  Muffled noises came from upstairs, Justin and JC talking with Lance, Chris making dinner, the clatter and noise of the living.  Joey’s thoughts started to move forward, focusing on the preparations still to be made and what this night would bring.  He took a deep breath, then turned away and headed upstairs to where his family waited.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	42. Forty-one

Forty-one  
  
 _A full-orbed moon, that like thine own soul soaring_  
 _sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven_  
Edgar Allen Poe, _A Moon Poem_  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Chris checked himself one final time.  Boots wrapped to muffle the sound of his footsteps, sword, knives, all weapons stowed properly so there would be no sound, no matter how quietly he moved.  The gods had gifted them with a very dark night, the moon low and sullen on the horizon, the stars faraway and dim behind a gauzy haze of fog.  Only the north star broke through, blinking coldly on the dark and silent City.  
  
It was now or never, he thought grimly, and hated the slight nervous tremor in his hands as he adjusted his belt and pulled on his gloves.  Now or never, his mother had whispered to him as he’d help her hide in the basement.  One Richardson brother dead at the hands of his own concubine, two others spotted days and days away, in another City.  AJ had sent riders to the Southwest to retrieve the other brothers from their travels when Nick’s body had been discovered but they were still far away.  Now or never, they’d said at the Yard meeting just before dawn, representatives from Yards all over the City gathering silently, faces taut with excitement as the news of Nick’s murder spread through the City.  After years of planning they had weapons, they had opportunity, and they had a plan.  
  
He glanced once more around his room, home since he’d bribed his way back into the City almost three years ago now.  Joey had said that they should move anything they didn’t want to risk losing by looting or by fire to the basement.  The only thing Chris cared about, other than their mission that night and the four men who would be fighting with him, was already there.  He’d made sure his mom was as comfortable and secure as possible, needing his head to be clear before his final weapons check.  
  
He blew out the small candle and left his room, stepping out into the hallway and almost colliding with Joey in the perfect darkness.  Joey slapped him on the shoulder, hard, and as his eyes adjusted Chris could see the gleam of his teeth as he grinned.  
  
“Finally,” Joey whispered, although there was no need, nobody was sleeping in this house tonight.  
  
“Finally,” Chris agreed, grateful as always for Joey’s fierce focus, his absolutely trustworthy skills and dedication.  They clasped arms briefly before heading down the hallway and into the kitchen beyond.  
  
Adrenaline was already beginning to hum through Chris’s veins as he strode into the kitchen, Joey silent at his heels.  Lance was waiting for them in the glow of a tiny candle, his face ghostly pale and calm.  He smiled at Chris, rich and slow, rising slowly to pull him into a hug.  Chris closed his eyes and squeezed Lance to him, memorizing his clean smell, the feel of him, warm and solid, in his arms.  
  
He stepped back and watched Lance hug Joey, a brief hard clasp with an enthusiastic back thump.  It made him smile.  
  
“Did you call the boys?” he asked Lance, jerking a thumb towards the attic.  
  
“No, but I heard them moving around,” Lance replied, and Chris noticed again that they were all whispering.  He glanced out the curtains covering the small kitchen window, seeing the flickering light from the North star creeping through the coastal fog.  “We’ve some time yet.  They’ll be down in a minute.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Upstairs, JC’s eyes were steady on Justin’s face as Justin finished buttoning JC’s collar, carefully tucking his silver medallion safely inside the cloth.  His fingers lingered against JC’s throat, smoothing against the skin until JC’s came up to catch them, tangle them with his own, bring them briefly to his lips.  
  
“You sure it’s okay to wear that?” Justin murmured.  
  
“Don’t want to lose it,” JC replied, and watched Justin’s still face, his eyes dreamy and unblinking in the dim light from the vent window, focused on something far away.  
  
“Joey said, the basement . . .”  He trailed off as JC separated his fingers with his own, stroking the sensitive flesh between Justin’s fingers.  
  
“Yes, the basement,” JC whispered, his eyes on their entwined hands now.  “That would work, but only if we’re coming back here.”  
  
Justin looked around the room that had been their sanctuary since leaving the dungeon.  “The last three years of our lives have been about walls,” he said softly.  “Walls below ground, walls high in the air, walls around walls . . .”  He trailed off, aware of JC’s fingers tightening on his own.  He brought his gaze back to him.  “No,” he whispered.  “We’re never coming back here.”  
  
JC nodded like he’d been expecting it, and his mouth drew into a thin, hard line.  Justin continued.  
  
“I think -- everything will change again tonight, and it won’t be like it was, or it is now.  It’ll be something . . . new.”  There was almost no light from the window, just a strange, diffused grayish glow that drifted oddly over Justin’s face.  For a moment it was like looking at a stranger, JC thought, someone who was already a ghost, and he felt a surge of fear.  
  
“Justin,” he said, and his hands were as urgent as his words as they clasped his fingers, pulling Justin a little closer to him.  “Justin, nothing is going to go wrong tonight.  We’re ready, we’ve planned every last detail, and we’ve trained, and it’s all going to be the way we want it to be.”  
  
Justin’s smile was slow and gentle, as loving as the hands he reached up to smooth over JC’s cheeks, the kiss he placed chastely on his lips.  “No,” he whispered.  “Nothing will go wrong.  And everything will change, but you and I, we’ll be the same.  Forevermore, we’ll be what we are to each other, here and now.”  
  
He took JC’s hand and coaxed him closer to the window, and by the tiny light of the northern star JC looked into Justin’s eyes and he understood.   They held each other for a long time, then silently left their high room and went down the stairs to join the others.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	43. Forty-Two

Forty-two  
  
 _and everything under the sun is in tune_  
 _but the sun is eclipsed by the moon_  
Roger Waters, Eclipse  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The five of them walked in unconscious synchronization, their steps lining up perfectly despite differences in stride, their muffled boots making almost no sound in the still air.  They paused at their own Yard and Joey and JC had final whispered words with the people gathered there.  A final weapons check, and they separated to set out for the Richardson guard posts stationed around the lower steppe.  
  
Information throughout the day revealed that there were extra guards at all the outposts, Kevin’s reaction to the breach of security that had allowed Nick’s murder.  Kevin and AJ had not been seen outside the castle, although intelligence had reported that AJ had personally executed every one of the women and the men in the palace brothel, along with the Richardsons’ own security guards and palace staff.  Kevin reportedly had not left the safety of his rooms high in the castle, but the castle itself, usually blazing with torchlight, was dark as a mausoleum this night.  Fitting, Chris thought, anticipation and adrenaline tasting sharp and tinny in his dry mouth.  Fitting for people who may as well already be dead.  
  
The moon, a perfectly round orb turned gray by the reflection off the mist, cleared the towering black wall, and Chris nodded to Lance.  Lance grinned at him, a flash of teeth, and moved silently out of the alleyway to the middle of the road, walking directly toward the outpost, manned for the first time in months with two wide-awake guards.  Chris watched him go and remembered the sound of his mother’s voice, whispering “he’s one in a million, honey.”  
  
Lance’s gait was unhurried, almost insolent for this time of night, hours after curfew.  The guards watched him narrowly and even at this distance Chris could see them tense, their hands already on their long, foreign swords.  Beside him Joey breathed a small curse and shifted as if he would rise, follow him, but Chris held up a silent hand, and Joey froze.  
  
Across the alleyway he was aware of JC and Justin creeping quietly toward the outpost, so quiet and still they seemed a part of the shadow they moved through.  They all watched as Lance approached the guard post, saw one guard call out a challenge, shockingly clear in the silent air, and then relax as Lance drew closer.  He waved Lance on impatiently, recognizing him as he grew nearer, and when Lance stopped and leaned over the wall to speak to them the guard leaned closer to hear.  Lance gestured toward the eastern wall, and when the two guards reflexively looked in that direction Lance quickly drew a wickedly long blade and neatly sliced the nearest guard’s throat.  The second guard gaped in shock as his comrade slid to the ground with a desperate gurgle, losing a precious moment as he struggled to pull his own sword, and in that moment JC had sprinted silently across the street and thrown his own knife, planting it with quivering accuracy in the man’s throat.  He went over backwards with a muffled thud, and then the outpost was empty, both bodies hidden behind the wall, and JC and Lance were walking back to where the rest of them were hidden as though nothing had happened.  
  
And as the moon cleared the high eastern wall and they headed silently for the middle steppe, it began to happen all over the City.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
By the time they had worked their way to the alabaster stairs leading to the upper steppe, the alarm had been raised.  Outposts had been abandoned as Richardson guards grouped together and retreated to the main avenue leading to the castle.  There were screams as skirmishes broke out all over the middle steppe, and in the northwest corner smoke began to drift sullenly toward the overcast sky as a fire broke out.  Justin was aware that many more people were following them as they pursued the Guard through the middle steppe, a gradually growing pressure at his back.  He felt the weight of the many eyes like a physical burden, and was grateful to be so closely flanked by Joey and JC as Chris led them up the main avenue.  
  
They hesitated as seven guardsmen burst from the cover of a small hedgerow.  Chris ducked and parried as the first ran toward him, Joey turned away to meet another threat, and JC was at his back, his sword singing cleanly as it flew through the air.  Before Justin knew it his own weapon was in his hand.  A tall bearded man ran toward him, shouting hoarsely and brandishing a long sword, and time seemed to grind down to a strange sort of slow motion.  
  
Justin took one short step back as he brought his sword up to block the killing blow arcing toward his head, his muscles flexing from fingertips to shoulder as he braced to absorb its force.  He saw the man’s eyes dilate with fear as Justin reflexively shunted the blow aside, as the man realized that his attack had failed, as his balance started to falter.  Justin heard Joey’s voice drilling quietly in his head, as he had hundreds of times in their Yard, telling him _The key is balance.  All the fancy footwork in the world won’t save you if you can’t keep your feet underneath you and you sword arm steady_ , and he watched himself like a calm, detached spectator as he brought his short sword around in a perfectly placed jab that slid the point slickly into the man’s stomach.  
  
The man stared at Justin as he went down, raising his eyes as he hit his knees, then collapsed onto his side.  And Justin stared back until the man’s eyes glazed over, went unseeing.  He was aware that the noise of the skirmish around him had stopped, that JC was close beside him, had his arm, was shaking him.  
  
“C’mon.  C’mon Justin, shake it off,” he whispered, and his hand was so warm on Justin’s suddenly icy cold skin.  Lance was on his other side, and they were moving again, heading up the stairs to the upper steppe, and the castle was suddenly right there, looming huge and dark over his head, the black and blue Richardson flags hanging limp in the still air.  He turned to look back at the bodies in the street, at the man he’d killed still curled obscenely on his side.  
  
But there were already people moving around the bodies they’d left behind, citizens emerging from their homes with weapons, looking out their windows with wide eyes.  He heard the whispers as he was recognized, people saying and then shouting his name as he turned away.  It was starting already.  He fell back into step with Lance and JC, grateful for their presence.  
  
“So, everybody warmed up now?” Chris’s voice was immensely cheerful, his grin wide.  He looked like he was having the time of his life.  “Let’s go.”  He added quietly to Justin as they drew even.  “Stay close to us.  We’re almost there.”  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	44. Forty-three

Forty-three  
  
 _we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars . . ._  
William Shakespeare, King Lear  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Serious opposition coalesced 200 yards from the main castle, a heavily armed and coordinated attack from a seasoned group of castle guards, and a far-off voice in Justin’s head expressed  surprise and horror at how much easier it was to kill now.  His muscles felt smooth and oiled beneath his skin, and he loved the way his body worked, parrying and slicing and jabbing, his feet sure beneath him.  JC was poetry in motion in the corner of his eye, and Justin was never alone, always one or more of the others beside him or behind him.  Their progress up the avenue was steady as more and more City Yard people appeared and began fighting alongside them.  The noise grew into a crescendo as the battle pitched, but then it all began to sound dim and far away, and Justin was aware only of his own harsh breaths, the muffled clanging of his sword, the gasps and death rattles of the men he killed.  He was powerfully reminded of the day of the invasion, but this time he was wasn’t trapped and powerless.  This time he was on the other side of the weapon, and the castle guards were gradually being beaten back.  Still, it brought back memories, vague mutterings in the back of his mind, and drove him to Chris’s side when there was a momentary break.  
  
Chris had fallen back to give directions to the Yard people and citizens joining the battle, a little island of calm in the midst of the chaos.  His face was filthy with blood, but his smile grew wide when Justin reached his side and gasped his thought about the castle’s hidden passage.  He clapped Justin on the shoulder, hard, and motioned toward the east, and the royal yards.  
  
“Joey and Lance went to take care of it,” he said, his eyes moving around the battle scene.  The castle guard had barred the gates to the castle proper, but they wouldn’t hold for long, and more and more people were joining the fight and howling for Richardson blood.  “You can tell this is just a delaying action now,” he continued almost conversationally, and Justin turned to look as Chris gestured.  “They’re trying to cover their own retreat, and I think that passage is their only way.  Joey and Lance took some Yard men to deal with it.”  
  
The moon had shaken free from the clinging tendrils of fog, throwing the main upper steppe avenue into a sharp, oddly detailed black and white relief.  Justin felt the darkness slide over him as the brightening moon crept behind the castle, its shadow rolling over them like a black cloud.  Justin shuddered, staring up at it as Chris’s voice and the sounds of the fight receded.  His pounding heartbeat echoed in his ears again and he realized how tired he was; exhausted, really, and not just from that night’s activities.  It was a weariness in his very soul, and standing in the shadow of the castle he felt it looming over him, grasping greedily at all the life he had before him.  
  
Turning away was a herculean effort, but when he finally wrenched his eyes from the stone walls and high turrets he was facing north.  High over the northern guard tower, the place so vivid in his thoughts this night, the cold light of the lone northern star blinked.  He stared at it for a long, silent moment.  
  
Behind him Chris was speaking urgently to JC, something about taking down the inner walls of the castle before the guard could get too entrenched behind them, and without taking his eyes from the far away northern star, Justin spoke.  
  
“Someone should go to the armory.”  He looked from Chris to JC, knowing his face was absolutely calm, absolutely confident.  “JC and I can slip in and out and get the explosives Lance saw.  JC knows the way,” he said, feeling more than seeing JC’s slow nod.  Chris wavered, frowning, and he thought _persuade him.  Do it.  Now._   “Chris,” he said.  “Let me do this.”  He kept his eyes steady until Chris nodded, slowly, still uncertain.  
  
“Come right back with all the small ones you can carry,” he said, his eyes searching Justin’s.  Then he smiled, brilliantly, pulling him into a hard one-armed hug.  “And hurry,” he added.  “You need to be here when it’s time to raise your flag.”  
  
Justin managed a nod, swallowing hard at the lump in his throat as he turned from Chris and fell in behind JC.  They headed around the main avenue of the upper steppe to the armory behind the old royal Yards, silent in the dark shadow of the moon.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	45. Forty-four

Forty-four  
  
 _As they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon_  
William Shakespeare, Coriolanus  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
“It doesn’t even look like the same place,” JC said sadly, hidden behind the hedgerow with the sounds of sporadic fighting far behind him and Justin at his side.  They peered carefully at the old armory, which was overgrown with weeds, its thatch roof old and rotten.  
  
“Maybe they’re not even storing them in there anymore,” Justin whispered, and JC shook his head.  
  
“No, Lance would’ve heard if they’d moved them.  I think . . . I think they just didn’t get a chance to get to them.  Or haven’t had the chance yet.”  
  
“Do you see any guards?”  
  
“No,” JC said.  “They must have gone to the castle . . . oh, wait.  I see someone looking out that window, at the end of the wall.  See?”  
  
Justin’s eyes narrowed.  “Yeah, there’s more inside.  I see three.  Maybe four.  And that other window is open too, and the door is ajar.”  
  
JC nodded, his breath coming quickly.  “I don’t think we can do this on our own.”  He paused, his eyes sharp on Justin’s face.  “We’d be crazy to try it.”  
  
They leaned back, using the overgrown hedgerow for cover.  JC was about to suggest going back to Chris for reinforcements, when Justin nudged him gently.  
  
“Look where we are,” he said softly, jerking his head up at the castle looming over them like a great ugly bird.  JC looked up, at the foundations of the main portion of the castle sitting squarely on the cliff face, at the old royal Yard tucked neatly into its shadow.  At the old armory, packed with explosives and built right against the wall.  
  
“If what Lance said was true,” Justin whispered, “setting off what’s stored in there will probably take out the entire foundation of the castle.”  His face was completely in shadow, but his eyes gleamed as he turned back to JC.  “They won’t need the explosives  at the gate then.”  He waited, and JC regarded him silently.  
  
“The castle will be destroyed, Justin.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“We’ll be killed trying to set the explosives off.”  
  
Justin’s smile was brief, sad.  “Probably.”  
  
They looked steadily into each other’s eyes.  JC finally smiled, sweet and full of sorrow.  “Do you have any matches?”  
  
Justin reached slowly into the small pack around his waist, pulling out a long thin wooden match which he handed carefully to JC, followed by the small explosive Lance had originally brought to the pub weeks ago.  He held it up silently, eyebrows raised.  
  
JC wasn’t looking at the small stick of dynamite, though.  He was looking closely into Justin’s face, searching, and Justin let him.  Then JC nodded, and saw Justin relax.  They smiled at each other as they stood, and JC scratched the tip of the match on the sole of his boot.  The stick flared to life, and Justin stood close to him, tipping the edge of the explosive to meet the flame.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~


	46. Forty-five

Forty-five  
  
 _It’s the Judgment of the Moon and Stars . . ._  
Joni Mitchell, Ludwig’s Tune  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Lance and Joey couldn’t find Chris.  He’d led the final charge over the castle’s inner walls, and nobody had seen him fall, but there had been such chaos after the catastrophic explosion that had collapsed the castle’s foundation that it was impossible to see anything.  The entire City was choked with smoke, and with citizens celebrating in the streets.  People were screaming Justin’s name, and someone said that Chris had gone with him to raise the Timberlake flag from the main guard tower on the North wall.  With most of the castle in smouldering ruins behind them, Joey and Lance headed there as well.  
  
The battle was over.  AJ had been found with a few of his guardsmen, trying to hide in his own dungeons.  He’d fought ferociously but had been hugely outnumbered, and Joey had killed him himself, taking a grim pleasure in it.  Kevin had been seen on the castle’s balcony just moments before the explosion; he was certainly dead too.  Already people were combing the rubble for his body, and when they found it it would be dragged triumphantly through the streets.  
  
Fire still raged in the middle steppe, throwing illumination in a flickering red that contrasted sharply with the cool colors of dawn spreading eastward through the sky.  Lance and Joey hurried toward the Northern gate, dodging dazed fighters and celebrating citizens, people working to put out the fire in the baker’s market even as they built more bonfires and burned everything bearing a Richardson insignia.  The noise reached a deafening crescendo: word had spread, and everyone seemed to be heading to the North gate, eyes on the flagpole on top of the tower.  
  
The wooden door of the main guard tower slammed shut behind them, muffling the shouts of the crowd as they fell gasping into the small anteroom.  The silence was a crashing shock after the noise of the battle, the explosion, the crowd outside, but Lance shook his head quickly and shouted “Chris!” in a voice that echoed in the round stone room.  There was an answering shout from Chris, high up in the tower, and they started up the steeply spiraling staircase at a run.  
  
They found him, alone, in the small chamber just below the bell tower and the flagpole.  He held the giant Timberlake flag in his hands, the one his mother had sewn, but his head was bowed and when he looked up they saw tears streaking through the grime on his face.    
  
“Chris,” Lance said again, gasping for breath.  “Chris, what . . .”  
  
Chris’s voice was raspy, unrecognizable.  “I sent them to the armory to get the explosives.  I sent them there.”  
  
Joey made a muffled sound between a gasp and a groan, and Lance, heart pounding, knelt on the ground next to Chris.  “The armory,” he said slowly, and Chris nodded.  
  
“The Richardsons had barred in the castle’s inner walls, and Justin said we should use the explosives.”  He turned his eyes away from Lance, searching through the window for the castle crumbled and smouldering on the edge of its cliff.  “It was a smart idea.  He and JC were just going to get some, and bring them back.”  His voice cracked, and he grit his teeth.  “Then there was that explosion, and they didn’t come back.”  
  
“Oh god.”  Lance pulled Chris into his arms, hiding his face in Chris’s hair as he felt his own tears come.  “Oh god, Chris.”  Chris trembled in his arms, breath hitching silently, and Lance was aware of Joey’s arms coming around both of them.  They stayed that way.  
  
“Everything we worked for.  All these years, everything we planned for, everything we wanted to give him, to give everybody.  And now, it’s all for nothing.”  Chris’s voice was desolate, and Lance, his mind full of Justin and JC’s faces, could say nothing to comfort him.  
  
“It wasn’t for nothing, Chris.”  Joey’s voice wavered, but his tone was firm.  “You know it wasn’t for nothing.  We knew there was risk, there had to be risk.  But getting our City back, it was worth fighting for.”  He stopped to wipe a big hand across his face, leaving damp streaks in the grime of his face.  He stepped forward, lifting the Timberlake flag from the floor and taking Chris’s arm, hauling him to his feet.  
  
“It’s for you to raise the flag, Chris,” he said finally, placing it in Chris’s limp hands.  “You know Justin would want you to do it.”  
  
Chris took the brightly colored flag, staring at it like he’d never seen it before.  
  
“Dawn is breaking,” Joey said softly.  “Show them what we fought for.  Show them all that it’s real.”

 

~ ~ ~


	47. Forty-six

Forty-six  
  
_There’s a long, long trail a-winding_  
_Into the land of my dreams,_  
_Where the nightingales are singing_  
_And a white moon beams._  
Stoddard King, The Long, Long Trail  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Chris took the final steps to the battlement slowly, his mind brimming with pictures of Justin and JC, filthy and pale in the dungeons, filled with intensity as they sparred in the Yard, laughing at a joke of Joey’s at the dinner table.  He rounded the final corner below the tall flagpole, remembering the first time he’d seen Justin’s mother, the queen, her kind blue eyes and her smile as she’d spoken to his mother.  He remembered Justin as a boy, watching Yard workouts from his solitary corner, wide-eyed and wondering.  
  
The stifling heat made his head swim and he leaned heavily against the wall as he unhitched the rope and quickly yanked the hated black and blue Richardson flag down, dimly hearing people cheering in the streets of the lower steppe as it disappeared.  He unhooked it quickly, kicking it aside with loathing.  Untangling the ropes, he gently unfolded the bright Timberlake flag, shaking out its folds as he hooked it carefully to the flag pole.  He thought about Justin’s face as he’d questioned Chris about the promised land up North, remembered the way Justin and JC had looked dancing together only two days ago, their eyes open and seeing only each other as the life and music of the City swirled around them.  
  
Smoke swirled thickly from the fires and the crumbling ruin of the Timberlake castle, and he coughed heavily as he ran the flag up the pole, hearing the screams of joy from the crowd below as the bright flag caught the morning breeze and rippled in the early dawn sun.  But Chris couldn’t bear to face the City he’d fought and sacrificed so much for just yet, and taking a deep breath he turned to look over the outer wall.  The deep breath was a mistake, and he doubled over, choking.  
  
There was confusion on the western road, early travelers and traders alarmed by the smoke billowing from the interior of the City, baffled by the raising of the Timberlake flag.  His eyes watered and his stomach heaved as Chris turned his face to the north in an effort to avoid the thickly swirling smoke.  The northern road was dark and empty, but his head spun and his eyes streamed and far in the distance there was movement at the edge of the forest.  Two figures on horseback paused in the darkness where the road curved in to the trees, partially hidden from the City.  Chris squinted desperately, his forehead knotting as he strained to see, and there was nothing there, the road was empty.     
  
His stomach rolled heavily as the smoke climbed around him, and through its thickness he could see the riders, just within the shelter of the trees, hidden in the shadows.  It almost seemed that one pulled the hood of his cloak down, showing long, wildly curling dark hair.  The other rider was taller, sitting easily on a horse that danced impatiently beneath him, and as Chris wiped impatiently at his streaming eyes the two riders seemed to turn toward the tower, and the flag snapping at its peak.  
  
Chris’s heart slammed hard into his throat, choking him as he grabbed the edge of the tower wall, frantically trying to see, to clear his eyes of smoke and tears and _see_ , clearly.  His fingers dug into the unforgiving stone as he stretched himself to his fullest height, one hand shielding his straining eyes.  
  
The smoke blew heavily, less black and noxious as the fires were extinguished but still obscuring the northern road and the forest beyond.  But it appeared that the taller figure stood in his stirrups and lifted a hand in farewell, and Chris gasped _no_ , and waved wildly.  _No, no, come back._   But the smoke swirled and the figure shook his head, turning his horse in a neat circle as he pointed away, far up the northern road.  The other rider was already drifting into the darkness, and as another thick cloud of smoke obscured his sight Chris saw them turning away, fading into the darkness of the trees.  
  
When Chris could see again there was no sign of movement anywhere, even where the forest was thin and the road was visible.  And far above the tree line, high in the sky, the northern star blinked out as the sun rose in the east.  
  
~ End

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Kaelie's Ghetto Page beginning on October 18, 2003, and ending November 19, 2003, exactly one year after I began writing it. Invaluable beta work by Jess and by Beth.


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